


Holmes is Where the Heart Is

by Foureyedfool



Series: Holmes is Where the Heart Is [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, BAMF John, Broken John, Complete, First Meetings, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Homeless!John, Homelessness, Hopeful Ending, Lonely Sherlock, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-20 06:23:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foureyedfool/pseuds/Foureyedfool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has recently returned home from Afghanistan, and he is already living on the streets. With a bum leg, no friends, and no family, he's lost his will to live-but then he meets Sherlock Holmes, and his life suddenly has meaning. Homeless!John</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It wasn't the first time that he'd woken up soaked in his own sweat, with his heart beating so fast he thought it would explode, and his breath coming as fast as if he'd just completed the obstacle courses he'd come to hate at basic training. He was still having dreams-nightmares, really, about his time spent in Afghanistan. He dreamed about all the wounded men, who all came to him, bleeding and moaning, some even crying. He dreamed about his hands steadily ripping open their uniform and applying pressure and bandages to their wounds. And, he dreamed about the ones that he could not save. The ones that begged him, "Please, help me". And he couldn't.

He saw their faces in his sleep, saw their wounds, felt their warm, thick blood on his hands. He could hear them crying out and hissing in pain as he would try to patch their wounds-no time for the pain killers, if I don't do this now, they will die!

He really was too hard on himself-he was a good doctor. A very good doctor. He saved more men than he lost, and the ones that he couldn't help were usually far too gone by the time they reached him. He told himself this constantly, yet it never made it any easier to call time of death.

He shivered and pulled his ratty leather jacket tighter around him with a sigh. Christ, it was cold. His coldest night since returning from Afghanistan, that was for certain. It was about eight o'clock, he guessed, seeing as how the sun had just set, yet there was still a bright glow coming out from the distant horizon, blocked mostly by the tall buildings that made up central London.

The air was brisk and, for a change, very quiet. He scooted forward, stuck his head out of his cardboard home, and looked around eagerly for anybody that may be in sight-nope, the cost was clear. He crawled out of his box and pushed himself off the ground, then, with his hands in his pockets, headed towards the nearest line of houses. Normally, he waited until much later in the night to scrounge, but his growling stomach told him that he couldn't wait anymore, or there would be dire consequences.

The first two houses didn't have their rubbish outside-not surprising, with his luck. At the third house, the residents had thrown away a bread bag with the heels still inside, which he careless stuffed into his pockets. A few houses further, he found three apples, heavily bruised, but still edible.

Two hours and two streets later, he returned to his box. He wouldn't looked more, but his leg was begging him to let it rest. He'd found bread, apples, a scarf that smelled like dog piss, a pair of dulled scissors, an unopened can of beer, a half-eaten bag of popcorn, and a takeaway box with some chicken bones inside, some of which still had some meat left on them.

He ducked inside his makeshift home and pulled out the contents of his pockets. His home was actually comprised of three large cardboard boxes, which made it almost possible for him to stretch himself out. His personal possessions now included the clothes on his back-his old, torn jacket, faded gray and white jumper, blue jeans, and brown sneakers-a roll of masking tape, two fat, white candles, his cheap, wooden cane, a box of matches, his Army-issued revolver, a plushy afghan, a cracked hand mirror and a paper-thin pillow. Now, only one thing missing…

He looked at the front of the box with a smile when he heard a soft mewl come from outside. He clicked his tongue and motioned inside the box. "There you are! Come on girl, get in here."

A small cat, emaciated and frail, crawled inside the box, rubbing up against his side and purring almost instantly. He had found her half-starved to death on his third night on the streets, and had subsequently shared any food he found with her. He hated it to admit it, but she was his only friend at the moment. She was white with sporadic black spots on her body and black ears. He had named her Phree. She didn't hang around him constantly, but six out of seven nights of the week, she joined him for dinner and spent the night with him.

"Glad you decided to join me," he said to the animal as he opened the box containing the chicken bones. "See what I got for you?"

As soon as the box was open, Phree had jumped onto his lap and began gnawing away at the bones. He decided to fold up one of the heels of bread and put some popcorn kernels inside, just to give him the pleasant feeling that he was eating a sandwich. God, when was the last time he'd eaten a sandwich? He couldn't remember. He took a bite and grimaced. Both the bread and the popcorn were stale, making the bread hard and the popcorn soft.

Phree looked up from her chicken and stretched her neck up towards his hand, where he was holding the sandwich. He looked at it, then back at Phree, back to the sandwich, then back to his cat. With a small sigh of defeat, he dropped it into the box of chicken bones.

"Enjoy."

/break\

When he woke up, he smiled. Phree was laying on his chest, eyes closed, breathing deeply. He pushed her off gently and then scooted out of the box. It was morning, no later than nine o'clock judging by the position of the sun. Thank God for his army training.

After wrapping his new scarf around his neck, he walked the short distance to the nearest fast-food joint, where he slipped into the bathroom and did his business and washed his face. He stared at his reflection in the mirror for a long while-he looked pathetic. Thin, sallow face, grimy skin, thick stubble-he hadn't come across a disposable razor in almost three weeks, and his last one had been stolen from him-and shaggy, filthy hair. His own mother wouldn't recognize him.

Not that that really mattered to him, of course. As far as his parents and sister were concerned, he was still abroad getting shot at. He hadn't bothered telling him that he was coming home. After all, he wasn't particularly close to any of them, especially his bitch of a sister. There was no way in hell that he was going to them for help.

He attempted to wash his scarf in the sink, then returned home feeling slightly better about himself, picking yesterday's newspaper out of a trashcan on the way. He ate an apple for breakfast. Phree had already left to look for prospects of a better meal than the ones he offered her. He had just settled down to read the paper when his box started shaking, and he heard howls of laughter outside.

Great.

He crawled out of the box and was greeted with three familiar faces. He stood up and leaned against his cane. He didn't know their names, so he called them Fat, Thin, and Guy-in-Between. Thin was the leader of their little posse, and they seemed to make it a priority to harass him at least three times every week.

He smiled sarcastically. "Why, good morning, gentleman. What can I do for you on this fine day?"

"Can it," Thin said, his voice no more than a growl. "What've you found?"

He looked at them stupidly. If there was anything he was good at, it was playing dumb. "Why, whatever do you mean?"

"Come off it, mate!" Guy-in-Between said with a roll of his bloodshot eyes. "You always find the best shit!"

"That's because I know where to look," he spat. "I've even told you where to, but you-"

"Hold him," Thin interrupted, and soon he felt his arms being held by Fat and Guy-in-Between in a vice grip. "Yeah, Stump, you have told us where to look. And we have. And guess what? We didn't find anything. Total shit, like everywhere else in this bloody town. So, how is it that you always manage to find food, money, clothes? Hmm?"

He shook his head. "I don't know." Trying to break free was out of the question-three men could overpower him; he wasn't the physically fit soldier that he used to be. Now, he was little more than a skeleton. If he did manage to get out of their grip, and outrun them, they would destroy his home and take everything he owned. Except his gun, which was buried under some shrubs in the corner.

"You know what I think, don't 'ya?" Thin didn't wait for his response. "I think you're lying to us. I don't think you even told us the right spots."

He raised an eyebrow. "Think what you want."

"One more chance, Stump. You get one more chance." Thin reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper, which he held out. "Here's my list."

Fat and Guy-in-Between loosened their grip, and he shook his arms free and took the offered piece of paper. "Your list?"

"Yes. You have a week to get that stuff for me. It shouldn't be a problem for you, it's all basic stuff, really."

Boots, size twelve. Two pairs of gloves. Coffee mug. Books. Utensils. Three hats.

He looked up from the list, which he'd only read half-through, and chuckled sarcastically. "You're kidding me, right?"

"Oh no, of course not. You bring me that stuff, and I won't kick you out of your home."

Anger was bubbling up inside him like a volcano ready to erupt. He'd put up with their shit for a month now; it was time to stand up to them, without endangering his own safety or risk losing any of his possessions. "It's my house!"

"Yes, and if you want to keep it that way, you'd better bring me everything on the bloody list. Starting with this." Thin reached out and pulled the scarf away from his neck, then forced him to watch as he wrapped it around his own. "One week, Stump."

They walked away, and he knew he wasn't going to let them go this time. He did not let people walk all over him. He never did before, so why start now? Sure, he was homeless, depressed, lonely, crippled worthless, but still…he had to maintain some of his dignity. He ran over to the bushes and eagerly dug out his revolver, ignoring the thorny stems that were digging into his hand, the shards of glass that were mixed into the soil, the small trails of blood that were beginning to trickle down his hands-he had only one thing on his mind.

Revenge.

He slipped the gun into his jacket and ran out of the alley. He glanced in both directions before seeing them duck into another street, about a block away. He started running trying to ignore the pain flaring up in his leg, with one hand inside his jacket, clenched tightly around his gun. He was going to catch them, then he was going to kill him. If only they knew that he'd been a soldier, if only they knew that he owned a gun-they would have thought twice before messing with him.

He turned down the same side street that they had, and instantly knocked into something, heard a loud oomph! and fell to the ground. He looked up immediately, but the three men were gone, and he had no idea which direction they'd gone in.

Fuck.

He glanced down to see what he had run into. A man, probably a few years younger than himself, was laying on the cement ground, an intense frown on his face. He had curly, dark hair, very pale skin, and intense, almost alien, blue-gray eyes. He was very skinny, and very dressed for the weather-he was wearing a long, thick black wool coat and a dark mauve scarf was wrapped tightly around his neck. On his hands were black leather gloves.

The man was striking, to say the least. Not that he was handsome, exactly, but he was so…unusual. The expression on his face and in his eyes, his body and wardrobe-fascinating.

The man stood up immediately and brushed himself off, spinning around and looking in every direction. He groaned-not just a disappointed groan, but an angry one, too.

"I hope you're happy!" he spat. "You have just single-handedly allowed the escape of one of the most notorious criminals in London! Why don't you watch where you're going?"

He looked at the man, taken aback by his accusations. "Me? You were running too!"

"I was chasing someone!" the man argued. "There-"

"I was too! And thanks to you, I've lost them!"

"Likewise!"

There was a beat of silence between them. He'd expected the man to say something more to him and then storm off in a huff…but he was still here. Neither of them had moved. They were staring at each other, as if expecting the other to start a fight at any moment. He broke it.

"You're a Bobbie, then?"

"Hmm?" the man squinted for only a second. "Oh, oh, yes. Yes, I'm an officer. Here's my card."

He pulled a small business card out of his pocket. He took it and read it over, then raised an eyebrow. "Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"That's right."

"No, you're not…I've seen Lestrade. You're not him."

The man looked at him curiously. "You've been him? Been copped before, have you?"

He rolled his eyes. "I saw him in the papers, actually."

"Ah." The man said with a slow nod. "Well, you're right, I'm not Lestrade." He held out his hand. "Sherlock Holmes."

He stared at the man's hand, reluctant to take it. A moment ago, this man was yelling at him, now he wanted to shake his hand.

Just do it. Don't be a bastard.

He took the offered hand. "John."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "John…?"

"Just John."

"I see. Well, just John, why were you chasing somebody?"

John frowned. He really didn't want to go into the whole story, didn't want this Sherlock Holmes character to know that he'd been at the mercy of the thugs, so he'd finally decided to shoot them all in the brains. He settled for a much more general answer.

"They stole my scarf."

Sherlock's eyes widened, surprised. "Your scarf? Is that it, really?"

John shrugged. "Well, Mr. Holmes, when you don't have a lot, it's pretty detrimental to lose something, not matter how small it is."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to shrug. "I suppose." He unwrapped his own scarf, and before John could say "no", the man was holding it out for him.

"Take it."

John looked at the scarf, then back at Sherlock. The man wasn't kidding-he was actually offering the scarf to him. John shook his head. "I don't need your charity."

"Good," Sherlock said aloofly, "because I wasn't offering any. Just take it. I've got half a dozen more at home."

John took the scarf and wrapped it tightly around his neck. "Thank you."

Sherlock nodded. "You're welcome. Now, if you'd like to pay me back, you can let me know if you see this man." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a newspaper clipping, which he handed to John. "That's the man I was after. It took me a week to track him down the first time, but now that he knows I'm onto him, it'll take longer. Let me give you my number; you can text me if-"

"I don't have a phone," John interrupted, feeling a slight blush creeping onto his cheeks. Was this man really so lacking in common sense and social skills, or was he being deliberately untactful? He must have known that I don't have a phone. What homeless man does?

"Right," Sherlock said softly. John thought that, just for a second, he caught a glimpse of embarrassment on the emotionless face. "My address, then. 221B Baker Street. If you see him, I need you to tell me immediately. Understand?"

"Are you stupid?" John asked-he couldn't help it. He'd never heard of someone giving out their phone number, name, and address to a total stranger, especially a homeless one. "Why are you telling me all this?"

Sherlock smirked. "Pretty sure I could take you down if you decided to rob me. You don't have any friends, so you'd be alone. That bum leg of yours doesn't look very intimidating."

Touché.

"What do you mean I don't have any friends? Why would you-"

"No time to explain," Sherlock interrupted. "I've got an appointment at the prison. Now, what's my address?"

"221B Baker Street."

Sherlock smiled. "Good. I expect to see you there, very soon."


	2. Chapter Two

John couldn't get Sherlock Holmes off of his mind. They had met three days ago, and John had replayed the scene in his mind hundreds of times. There was something captivating about the man, but John couldn't figure out what it was for the life of him. His cockiness? Bluntness? Or maybe it was the fact that he didn't engage in any of the niceties that are normal in everyday conversation? Or maybe his fashion sense?

John's lips quirked upwards into a smile as he remembered how Sherlock had offered to give him his number. You can text me. John snorted, amused. He was certainly quick to trust me, he thought to himself. But why?

John had realized the morning after meeting Sherlock that he had lost the paper containing Thin's list. The only thing from it was he could remember was books, silverware, and size thirteen boots. Or was it twelve?

It didn't matter. It had been three days, and John hadn't found-or even looked for-a single thing they wanted. Instead, his days had been spent searching for the burly man in the newspaper clipping Sherlock had given him. The most outstanding feature that the man had was his unruly hair and beard, but John had a feeling that the man didn't have them anymore. After only five minutes of interacting with Sherlock Holmes, John knew that he wouldn't want to be caught in a dark alley with the man. He was intimidating. It wasn't that he came off as ruthless-more like, he would do anything and everything to ensure that he got his way.

John didn't want to disappointment Sherlock Holmes. He couldn't explain why, but he knew that was the reason that he was spending more time looking for a criminal than for the objects that would keep him alive. For the first time since his return to London, he wished that he'd bothered to make some friends—or, at the very least, acquaintances. He could be showing them the suspect's picture, telling them to keep a lookout for him. Then there'd be more of a chance that he'd locate him, and more of a chance that he'd get to see Sherlock again.

Normally, John did all that he could to remain hidden from the public eye—what if somebody recognized him? Doctor John Watson, former army surgeon, now living on the streets in a cardboard box, shaggy and unkempt, and stinking to high heaven. What would people say about him? He used to be so respected…so well liked…so needed. Now, no one needed him. No one even knew he existed.

Another day passed, and John hadn't found his list, nor anything that he remembered from it, or Sherlock's perpetrator. As was his luck, Thin, Guy-in-Between, and Fat stopped by his home to 'check up on him'. Needless to say, they weren't pleased that John hadn't collected any of their requested items. When John told them that he had misplaced the list, Fat and Guy-in-Between clenched his arms tightly behind his back.

"You've no idea how disappointed I am," Thin said with a smug grin. "Really, Stump. I am very upset with you right now. What's this?" He bent down and snatched Sherlock's newspaper clipping from John's pocket, then scanned it before holding it up in front of John, eyebrows raised. "What the hell is this? You know this guy?"

John shook his head. "No."

"Then why do you have an article about him?"

"I could be wrong," John said, his voice firm, "but I don't think that's any of your business."

John doubled over when he felt Thin's clenched fist collide with his stomach. "Don't you dare get smart with me, Stump," he growled. "You forget your place."

A snort of laughter escaped John's throat. Seriously? He looked up at Thin, his eyes narrowed. "Let me go."

Thin's answer was another punch in John's gut, followed by two to John's eyes, first the left, then the right. John struggled against Fat and Guy-in-Between, but to no avail. They were too strong and too full of adrenaline, and he was just too weak. He hadn't eaten or slept in two days—the former because he had been out looking for Sherlock's suspect, the latter because he hadn't found anything to eat that didn't make him retch at the sight or smell of it.

But that didn't stop him from trying.

He jerked his arms again, but still, the two men on either side of him were not letting go. Thin chuckled and grabbed his chin, squeezing it roughly.

"What's the matter?" he asked snidely. "Feeling a bit…uncomfortable?"

John's only answer was silence. Thin sighed and snapped John's face to the side as he let his hand drop. "Tell you what, Stump. I'll give you your three days on one condition." He paused, waiting for John to respond. He didn't.

"Beg me to let you go," Thin continued, a wide smirk on his face. "Beg me."

John raised his head and locked eyes with Thin. "Fuck you."

Thin laughed, and John felt his hands clench into fists. He tried to wrench himself from his confines, but, again, it was a fruitless attempt. "Goddamn!" he growled. The word slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it. Thin punched him again, this time in the jaw. John saw something flying out of the corner of his eye—it was tiny piece of his left canine tooth. More punches followed, and, soon, Fat and Guy-in-Between had released him from their grip and had joined Thin on the beating.

John tried to fight back—he really did. He tried to kick them, tried to shove his knee into their stomach, tried to stop their fists in mid-air like he'd been taught in the army…but he couldn't. He couldn't do anything. Any kick that he managed to land on them was feeble and light; he couldn't raise his knee up fast enough to hit them, and he the blows were coming too fast for him to stop them.

They were no longer focusing on his face; their aim had dropped to his chest, then his stomach, his ribs. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. John, exhausted and in pain, collapsed onto the frozen ground and blacked out.

/break\

When John woke up, it was dark outside, and he was shivering violently. The three men had taken his scarf—Sherlock's scarf?—and he could see that his cardboard house had also been 'broken' into. He drug himself to his box and glanced inside of it, and cursed. They'd left him with nothing. His blanket, his candles, his mirror, his tape, all gone.

"Bloody hell!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, slamming his fist against the ground—a big mistake he soon discovered, as a sharp, stabbing pain shot through his hand. He raised his hands to his face and gingerly let his fingers run over it—his jaw was caked with dried blood from his torn lip, his eyes were tender to the touch, and he had a small gash running across his forehead.

He heard a soft 'meow' come from inside the box, and he smiled despite the pain he was in. His lips curled up into a smile as he stretched his hand into the box as far as he could. He snapped his fingers softly. "Come here," he said gently. "Come here."

Phree rubbed against his hand, and he seized the opportunity to pull her by the scruff of his neck into his arms. She'd lost weight, he noticed. No doubt it was because he'd had nothing to feed her for the last two days. He held her tight against his chest and stroked her head. "It'll be all right," he whispered, more to himself than to the cat. "We can find all that stuff again. Might take a few weeks, but…we'll manage."

Go to somebody. Go to Mum and Dad. Go to Harry. Go to a fucking homeless shelter, for Christ's sake!

"No," John said aloud, his voice sounding oddly familiar to the tone he carried when in the army. "No, I'm not doing that. I can take care of myself."

Always with the pride, eh, soldier boy? Why don't you just tell them? Are you really going to spend the rest of your life on the streets? They'll eventually look for you, you know that. It would be much better to come to them on your own terms than for them to find you half-starved to death and smelling like booze and piss.

John shook his head. Don't talk to me about pride. Look at me. I'm crippled and look like I've spent the last thirty years of my life in a cave. I…I can't let them see me. I don't want to disappoint them.

The air was freezing, but, thankfully, it was a still evening, so John didn't have to fight against the wind. The street was bustling with people of all shapes, sizes, and colors, typical for a Friday night. People were staring at him, not even bothering to be discreet. He knew, though, that he looked quite a sight—a short, disheveled man wearing grimy clothes and carrying an emaciated cat in his arms, hobbling down the street at a snail's pace.

None of them know who you really are. All they see is a crazed, homeless lunatic—they'd never guess that you're a doctor, a war hero, that you risked your life to give them the ability to walk through the streets and not fear for their lives.

Don't let it get to you.

You know better.

Then, something happened. Something that, without a doubt, had to be God's doing, or some other all-powerful being. As John limped his way past a bench, which was occupied by a larger man and a young, attractive woman, he jerked to a stop.

"I had an old mate at Bart's, actually, fellow by the name of John Watson. Last I heard he was abroad somewhere getting shot at. Dreadful business, this war. Good 'ol John though, he was never one to pass up a challenge. He said he'd be honored to die for his country. You know, that's the trouble with our military, it's—"

John had spun around at the very mention of his name, and now that he heard the details involving himself had ceased, he resumed walking. Mike Stamford. Mike Stamford remembered him. John felt his face burning—not from embarrassment, but from shame. "Die for my country," he muttered resentfully. "Yeah. That went over real well, didn't it." Phree twisted her head and looked at him as he continued his rant. "No, I don't get the honor of dying. Instead, I get shot in the shoulder, and return home with a limp and a hand tremor. I'm so glad that I risked my life for this."

John continued walking for what seemed like hours, though it was only about twenty minutes. He had arrived at his destination, the only place that made sense to him at the moment, the only place that he wanted to be. 221B Baker Street. Sherlock was home; he could see the man's lanky silhouette and curly hair through the thin window curtains.

He stood, frozen, on the sidewalk in front of the house, looking up at the window. Just ring the doorbell already, he told himself. You haven't been able to get him out of your mind for four days; just go talk to him. Then you'll realize that he's not the hero you made him out to be, and you'll be able to move on. Heroes don't exist. I'm living proof of that.

John heard the front door open, and let his gaze drop to see who was emerging. It wasn't Sherlock, he knew, because he was still upstairs—playing the violin now, by the looks of it. The person who had opened the door was a slim, elderly woman, with short hair and bright eyes. She smiled broadly and motioned John to come closer, which he didn't. Actually, he took a step backwards and tightened his grip around Phree, ready to make a break for it. Damn it, he cursed inwardly. Why did you have to be so bloody obvious?

"Sherlock told me to come and fetch you," the woman told him, smiling. "He says he's been expecting you."

John pointed to Sherlock's window, then at himself, then repeated the motion somewhat frantically. "Wh-What? He—He told—how did he even know I was here?"

The woman laughed. "You'll have to ask him, dear; I have no idea how he does what he does." She beckoned to him again. "Come in, come in! You'll catch your death out here!"

John wanted to refuse the offer—he really did. He knew that Sherlock would expect him to have the location of the main in the paper, and he obviously didn't. This woman's wide smile and warm personality, though, made him crack down and walk towards her. Again, he clutched Phree closer to his chest. When he was next to the woman, he looked at her almost apologetically and asked, "Is it all right if I bring her in? She…she's all I've got."

The woman nodded kindly and gave him a quick pat on the shoulder as he walked through the door. "Of course, dear. Just make sure you keep a hold of her; I've never had a good experience with my tenants' cats. In fact, I once had a woman that—"

"Mrs. Hudson," came a clear, recognizable voice from the top of the stairs, "please do not bore my partner with any of your stories. Your exaggerations are so extreme it's hard to accept any part of them as the truth."

John's first reaction was to feel sorry for the woman—for Mrs. Hudson—but when he saw Sherlock looking down at him, a wild and excited gleam in his eyes, the feeling disappeared and was replaced with an excitement of his own.

"John," Sherlock said, waving his hand agitatedly, almost begging John to come upstairs. "Come on."

John began up the steps as fast as he could, which wasn't very fast at all with his bum leg and the fact that he couldn't use the handrail because both hands were clutching to Phree. When he was about two-thirds of the way up, Sherlock shouted down at Mrs. Hudson, who was watching John with a look of pure pity on her face.

"Mrs. Hudson, I've just ordered dim sum from that place at the end of the road; be a dear and pick it up for me, will you?" He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out his wallet, then flung it down the steps at her. "Use my card. There is a ten-pound note in the pocket, take it for your trouble." Before she could respond, Sherlock had retreated into the room at the top of the steps.

It took John another minute before he was entering into the room. His eyes widened automatically at the sight of the place—it was like nothing he'd ever seen before. The floor was covered with what seemed to be a little bit of everything—books, newspapers, magazines, pill bottles, boxes, socks. He even picked out four separate scarves amongst the other items. On the left side of the room there was a fireplace, atop which sat a pile of envelopes held in place with the blade of a pocketknife, a the framed corpse of a bat and several insects, and a skull. A human skull.

John couldn't help it; he approached the fireplace with his eyes locked on the singular object. Behind him, he heard Sherlock chuckle. "A friend of mine. I think better when I talk out loud."

"It's—It's real," John breathed in disbelief. "Where the hell did you get a real skull from?"

"That's not important," Sherlock told him. "What is important is that I've managed to locate McNamara, again. It seems he wasn't as clever as I gave him credit for—not surprising, they never are. He's in the Baron Willoughby Suite Junior Suite at Hazlitt's. Now, all I need you to do is—"

"Wait, wait," John interrupted, supporting Phree with one arm while he held out his other hand to get Sherlock to stop talking. "All you need me to do? Who said I was going to be doing anything?"

Sherlock walked over to the wine-colored armchair sitting next to the fireplace, right in front of the entrance to the kitchen, and picked up a plastic bag, holding it out for John to take. "This."

John dropped Phree into the chair and gave her a look which he hoped conveyed if you do anything to piss him off, I swear to God, you're sleeping alone tonight and took the bag from Sherlock. It contained two pairs of gloves, a pair of size twelve boots, a coffee mug, silverware, three drivers caps, two books, and more random odds-and-ends. He looked at Sherlock, who was staring at him intently.

"What's all this?"

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows slightly and cocked his head. "Your shopping list. Or, whatever you call it. It fell out of your pocket the first time we met."

"Yes, I know!" John snarled. "I've been looking for it for four days! If you're so good at finding people, why couldn't you have found me and given it back?"

Sherlock looked taken aback by John's outburst. "Come again?"

"That wasn't my list, Sherlock! It was the list of the men that stole my scarf. They love ganging up on me because, apparently, I'm the one homeless man in London that finds gold in the garbage. They gave me a week to find all that shit for them."

Sherlock shrugged carelessly. "Good," he said. "That means you have three more days to get it to them. What's the problem?"

"The problem," John hissed, "is that they paid me a visit today. When I told them I lost the list, they beat me up and took everything that I did own."

"Ah," Sherlock said, nodding his head. "That does explain a lot."

John dropped the bag on the floor and crossed his arms. "Does it now?"

"Yes. The dried blood on your forehead, the blue-green tinted bruises forming around both your eyes, the tiny chip in your left canine, the way you're walking with more of a limp than the last time we were together." Sherlock licked dry lips reflexively and sighed. "I apologize. I wasn't aware of the situation, or I would have made an effort to get the items to you in a more timely fashion."

"So you just happened to know that I'd show up at your house?" John asked, smirking in disbelief. "Forgive me if I don't believe you."

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. "It doesn't matter to me whether you believe me or not," he said coldly. "A fact is a fact, whether you accept it or not." He pointed at the chair that Phree was occupying. "Now, take your coat off and sit down. Mrs. Hudson will be back with dinner soon, and I want to get you fully informed before that. People tend to think better when they don't have digestion to slow them down."


	3. Chapter Three

John nodded to the violin that was now propped up in the windowsill. "I saw you play."

"I know," Sherlock said nonchalantly as he turned around and approached the window. He picked the instrument up and tucked it beneath his chin, then held the bow against the strings. "Any requests?"

John shook his head, and was about to tell Sherlock that he wasn't very knowledgeable when it came to solo violin pieces, but the other man had already begun to play. Sherlock had his eyes closed and the side of his head resting against the instrument as if it were a pillow. The violin in itself was nothing extraordinary; a medium-light shade of brown, plain, in good nick, but the sound coming from it was extraordinary. It wasn't a song John had heard before, but it made him feel a way he hadn't felt since being shipped to war. He couldn't quite put his finger on what it was—calm? Happy?

Hopeful.

That was it.

For the first time since John had been deployed to Afghanistan, he felt like something was going right in his life. That something could, maybe, possibly, turn out the way he wanted it to. This, he told himself, could be a fresh start for me. He doesn't know me. He doesn't know what a fool I've been. He doesn't know how I've fucked up my life. All he knows is that I'm some bum that keeps a cat and a temper. Even if I—

"I'm boring you."

John's head snapped up in Sherlock's direction. "Hmm?"

Sherlock was glaring down at him, clearly annoyed, but also something else...was he disappointed?

"What's wrong?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Why would you think something was wrong?"

John shrugged and drummed his hands on his knees. "No reason. You play very well, by the way. Professional?"

As he walked past the chair John was occupying and into the kitchen, Sherlock said, "No. It helps me think."

John's eyebrows furrowed. "I thought talking to the skull helped you think?"

He turned around in his chair just in time to see the amused smile fade away from Sherlock's lips. He didn't respond to John's observation; he was too busy clearing off the kitchen table. John's first thought was what the hell? when he saw that the table was covered with test tubes, beakers, vials, bottles, tiny boxes.

"Don't you use dishes like a normal person?" John asked, grinning, as he got up from his chair and approached the other man. Again, Sherlock ignored him. John reached out and picked up a medium-sized beaker half-filled with a dark purple solution. "Do you need some help? Let me—"

"John, no, put that down!"

John flinched in surprise, but, thankfully, didn't spill any of the beaker's contents. He carefully lowered it back onto the table. "Sorry."

"That's my only sample of temoporfin," Sherlock said, by means of explanation. "It's a chemical compound used in photodynamic therapy to assist in cancer treatment."

I know what it is. Foscan. Used to treat squamous cell carcinoma. Only question is, why do you have it?

Play dumb, John. Don't let him know what you know.

John forced a chuckle. "And here I thought you were a Bobbie." He had to fight to keep a straight face when he looked at Sherlock; the man had slid a test tube onto each of the thin fingers on his right hand, and was holding his hand up at his side. His other hand was frantically digging through one of the boxes. "You seem more mad-scientist-ish."

"If you must know," the man growled, "I'm a detective—a consulting detective. The only one in the world, mind you. I invented the job."

John cocked his head. "A consulting detective? What—What does that even mean? Do you work for the Yard, then?"

Sherlock smirked. "To be quite honest, I think it's more accurate to say that they work for me. When the police are out of their depth—which is always—they call me in."

"Why?" John asked, unable to help himself. "What can you do that they can't?"

Sherlock picked up the box he was rummaging through and dropped it on the floor carelessly, then started digging through another box. He held out the hand holding the test tubes on his fingers. "Take these. Put them in the sink."

John did so, then turned back to Sherlock, still grinning. "You're avoiding the question."

Sherlock groaned. His head snapped up and his eyes locked with John's. "I deduce," he said curtly. "I can look at a person and tell things about them that no one else can. People are idiots; they see but they don't observe."

I can look at a person and tells things about them that no one else can.

Shit.

"What kinds of things can you tell?" John asked, trying his hardest not to sound too eager. "Age, weight, height?"

Sherlock chuckled and waved his hand dismissively. "No, no, no, nothing as simple as that. We're talking marital status, occupation, family members, where they've been recently, whether or not they—"

"What about me, then?" John interrupted, stepping closer to Sherlock. "What can you deduce about me?" His heart was beating faster now, his hands were beginning to moisten, and the pain in his leg was flaring up with a vengeance.

So much for a fresh start.

Sherlock looked taken aback by John's question. "Well, this is unexpected," he admitted. "You're the first to ask me that. People normally tell me to piss off."

John laughed, then cocked his head. "Why?"

Sherlock sneered, almost like he was proud of what he was about to say. "People take part in some less-than-savory acts, John. Cheating, gambling, stealing, lying, that sort of thing. They don't appreciate it when I remind them of their misdeeds."

"So…why do you?"

Sherlock's smirk widened. "Because it's fun."

A brief knock on the doorframe interrupted their conversation. They turned and saw Mrs. Hudson standing in the doorway, holding a large bag in both of her hands. "What in the world did you order, Sherlock?" she asked as Sherlock walked over to her and took the bags, then set them down on the table. "It was almost fifty pounds!"

"I wanted a variety," Sherlock replied. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Good evening."

"Your money is still in there, Sherlock," the woman told him. "I wouldn't feel right about taking it from you, especially not when you've got company. I remember that time you brought those police officers back here, they—"

John contained a smile when he saw Sherlock roll his eyes a little. Thankfully, his back was to Mrs. Hudson, so the poor woman didn't see him. "Good evening, Mrs. Hudson," he said again, a bit more insistent this time. She got the hint and, with a somewhat mischievous smile, left the room. Sherlock waited until they heard the living room door open and close before he spoke.

"Vegetable dim sum, sweet and sour chicken, egg rolls, fried and steamed rice, curried shrimp, soba noodles-" he nodded towards Phree, who had sauntered into the kitchen like she owned the place, "—and steamed chicken for your friend."

John raised his eyebrows. "For my friend? You—You didn't have to—"

"I'm aware of that," Sherlock interrupted. He pulled a plate out of the cabinet, then a fork out of the drawer beneath the microwave. He set a plate and a fork on the opposite place at the table, the beckoned John over to the chair. "What do you want?"

He got this…for me?

"Sorry, what?"

"You need to clean out your ears," Sherlock said bluntly. "They're obviously as dirty as the rest of you; you keep asking me to repeat myself. I said, what do you want?" Sherlock sat down, and John, reluctantly, sat across from him. He exhaled a long sigh of relief; his leg had been almost at its breaking point, but now that he was off it, it was already starting to feel better.

"I'll take whatever you don't," John said softly, almost timidly. What's wrong with you, soldier? Don't be such a pussy. He asked you what you want, you tell him what you fucking want!

But he couldn't. The only words that were going through John's mind right now were I don't need your charity, I don't need your charity, I don't need your charity.

Sherlock was scooping a spoonful of everything onto John's plate. "I'm not eating," he said casually. "Like I said, people think better when they're not digesting. Though, I think you're the exception to that rule. When did you last eat?"

John felt a blush creeping onto his cheeks. This is bloody humiliating. Dr. John Watson, when was the last time you've been able to afford a meal? Oh, months? All right, then. When was the last time that you found something half-way decent to eat in the garbage? Almost three days?

"I don't remember."

Sherlock, having loaded the plate with food, sat it in front of John and leaned back in his chair. "I doubt that," he replied brusquely. "Your stomach's been growling since you got here."

John picked up his fork, but didn't move to pick up any food. "I hadn't even noticed."

"Not surprising, you're probably used to it. Now, as for McNamara, we'll have to get you cleaned up and dressed. I doubt he'd consider you, in your current attire, to be an authentic client. All we have to do is get him to tell you who he gets the stuff from. He doesn't make it himself; we know that much. If we can find out who he sells it to him, we'll be all set. Then we can take him down." He looked at John, who still wasn't eating, only watching him intently. "Eat. Any questions?"

John's stomach grumbled, but he forced himself to ignore it. The food smelled amazing and smelled even better, but he wasn't about to let himself start wolfing it down like an animal. "Just one. What the hell are you talking about?" Sherlock opened his mouth, but John continued speaking. "Who sells what to him? Gets what stuff from? Doesn't make what stuff? How the bloody hell do you expect me to just waltz in there and pretend to know the guy, and know what it is that I'm talking about? And who the hell is 'we'? You keep saying we."

"You and me," Sherlock said slowly, putting a sarcastic emphasis on each of the words. "And the stuff is drugs, what else could it be? And no, of course I don't expect you to 'waltz' in and act like you know what you're doing; you'll be wearing a wire, of course. I'll tell you what to say."

"Won't there be a delay? Between what you say and when I say it? He'll notice."

Sherlock grinned arrogantly. "I believe you underestimate me, John," he said through his smirk. "And yourself." He stood up and quickly walked to the living room. "Now, you eat; I'll get the microphone and earplugs ready. Then we'll get you looking half-way decent and be on our way."

As soon as Sherlock was out of sight, John began scarfing down food. He felt disgusting; he sounded like a hog and looked like a teenage boy that had never been taught basic table manners, but he didn't care anymore. He just didn't care. It had been days since he'd eaten and months since he'd eaten anything this good.

Sherlock already had the wire ready. John knew that. He had left the room because he could sense that John didn't want to eat in front of him. Now that the food was out of the boxes, Phree had jumped up on the table and was trying to poke around John's plate. He picked her up and set her on the floor, then opened the box of steamed chicken and placed it in front of her.

In only a matter of minutes, John had finished his first place of food. He began to scoop more onto his plate. Hopefully I can taste it this time, he thought. He had eaten the first plateful so fast that he hadn't gotten to enjoy it. He had just taken the first bite of his second plate when he heard the faint ringing of a phone. It only rang twice, so he suspected Sherlock answered it quickly. After a few seconds of mumbled conversation, he heard a loud crash from the living room, then heard Sherlock curse.

John immediately stood up and dashed into the living room as fast as his tired leg would allow. Sherlock was bending over a large box, no doubt that he had just dropped, and was trying to untangle what appeared to be a miniature ear piece that was attached by cord to a small black box.

"Here," John said, stretching out his hand. "Let me."

Sherlock practically threw the earpiece at him. "Hurry up," he insisted. "McNamara expects you there in half an hour; he changed the time on me."

"Half an hour?" John repeated. "I won't have time to—"

"No, you need to get some clean clothes on and brush your hair; we don't have time for anything else." Sherlock rushed into a room, more than likely his bedroom, and remerged in seconds with a pair of dark slacks, a crisp white shirt, and a black blazer. "Oh, shoes!" he exclaimed, as he locked eyes with John. "What size—" he glanced at John's feet—"eight, ok." Sherlock was gone and back again in a flash, holding a pair of black socks and black leather shoes, all of which he pushed into John's arms. "Hurry up and get dressed," he said as he jerked the wires out of John's hands, "you can do this on the way there. Now, what else—oh, hairbrush!"

John watched, totally muddled, as Sherlock entered his bedroom for a third time, and reemerged only moments later with a comb, toothbrush, toothpaste, a wet washcloth, and a bottle of cologne.

"You're not getting dressed!" he said, exasperated, when he saw that John was still just standing there, rooted to the spot. "Come on John; we've got no time for this!"

"What—I'm not going to change in front of you!" John sputtered. "I—"

"I'm not watching you!" Sherlock groaned. He waved towards his bedroom. "Go in there, then. And here, wash yourself up." He tossed John the washcloth.

John went into the bedroom and washed and changed as quickly as he could. He found it hard not to get distracted by all the strange odds and ends Sherlock had in the room, from the alligator head hanging on the wall to the stacks and stacks of journals, dictionaries, and encyclopedias he had in one of the corners of the room. The bed itself looks like it hadn't been slept in recently, or maybe even never at all. It was perfectly made, and reminded John of all the mornings in the service that he'd woken up and had tucked in the folded corners of his sheets and adjusted his pillow case.

This man…this man was intriguing. The way he spoke—quickly, but with every word deliberate and essential to his point—and the way he acted—again, deliberate and essential, no nonsense, like every move he made, every word he said, decided on the fate of the world. Maybe, John considered, you're just putting him on a pedestal because you're so intrigued by him. You've never met anyone like him—I doubt there even is anyone like him. But why is he doing all this? Bringing you into his home, feeding you, feeding your cat! And now he says he wants your help to take down one of London's…how did he put it the other day…'most notorious' criminals? Why? Why you? If he knew you were an ex-military man, then, perhaps that would make sense. If he knew you were a doctor, that might make sense, too. But he doesn't.

Does he?

A frantic knocking on the door interrupted his reflection. "John? Are you finished?"

John pulled on his right shoe, the last thing to be done, and then swung the door opened and stepped back into the living room. "Yes."

Sherlock handed him the comb, then squirted three sprays of cologne on him. The smell initially made John's nose burn, but he soon found that he liked the smell—it was pleasant, but not overpowering, spicy, yet sweet, exotic, but…comforting.

Once he had finished combing his hair as well as he could, Sherlock handed him the toothbrush and toothpaste. "Here. Don't worry, it's new. I'm going to go out and get a cab, come out as soon as you're done."

Something in Sherlock's tone made John realize that was the man really meant was if it takes you longer than two minutes to get outside, I'm coming back in here and dragging you out by your ear, so John hustled over to the kitchen sink and brushed his teeth as quickly as he could. He hated having to stop; the bristles felt amazing on his teeth, a feeling that he hadn't got to enjoy in so long. After a few strokes on each row of teeth, John spat into the sink and rinsed his brush and mouth, then pulled the blazer tight around his body and hobbled down the steps. He went out through the front door and saw Sherlock standing on the curb next to a parked cab.

"Good, finally!" the detective said with a small, relieved grin. He climbed into the cab, and John immediately followed. "Six Frith Street," Sherlock told the driver. "Quickly, please." He sank back into his chair and sighed. Without looking at John, he said, "Ok, you've got questions. Still."

"Of course I have. I still don't understand. Why did you get some bloke off the street to do this? Why not the police?"

"Because that idiot Lestrade considers the case to be closed," Sherlock said sourly. "If I asked him for anymore help, not only would he refuse, but he'd monitor me to make sure that I don't 'meddle with things that don't need to be meddled with'."

"Oh," John said, nodding in understand. "He's like your nanny then."

He would have given anything to capture Sherlock's expression at that second. The man looked disgusted, angry, relieved, and amused all at once. He was grimacing, but it was like he was trying to cover a smirk, too.

"Funny," he said monotonously. "What else?"

"Why don't you do it yourself?"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "No, no, no, that wouldn't work. He knows who I am. Every good criminal does. And If they don't they should. He would've seen me in the papers or on my website."

"One more question, then," John said, then shook his head. "No, two. Why did you just happen to have clothes that fit me in your closet?"

"Simple. My work requires me to take on a variety of roles and personalities. So, I need disguises to match."

"Ok," John said, nodding. Makes sense.

Wait…no it doesn't!

"Then why don't you go yourself?" John asked again, this time with a higher level of conviction. "You say you don't go because you think he'll recognize you, and then you say that you have disguises to make sure people don't recognize you; which is it?"

Sherlock looked at John with his eyes widened, almost maniacally, and spat, "Both. And neither." And he left it at that.

As John turned his head back to look out the window, he snorted, amused. He doesn't know why he asked me to come, he realized. That's surprising. He seems to know everything—about himself and about other people.

Glancing at the cab's clock, John saw that it was just after ten o'clock—on a normal night, he'd be out scrounging for food and anything else he could get his hands on. But not tonight. Tonight, he had a full stomach, combed hair, brushed teeth, a clean face, and the fanciest clothes he'd worn since being deployed. John felt a tinge of apprehension in his chest, and he knew exactly what it was from. Not his coming encounter with this McNamara fellow, no, John had seen enough death and war to not be afraid of something so trivial—no, he was afraid of what would happen once he'd done his part. Once he'd repaid Sherlock for the food and the items from the list with his help in the case, then what?

Then you'll go back to the street. Where you belong.


	4. Chapter 4

The taxi slowed to a stop in front of the Hazlitt Hotel. Sherlock paid the driver, and pulled himself out of the car. John followed. When John was out of the car, Sherlock put his hand on the shorter man's shoulder so that he couldn't face the direction of the hotel.

"Now," Sherlock told him, his voice lowered, "your name is Tony Reagan. You're a banker from Soho. You're here to purchase twelve ounces of heroin." He reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. "Here. Six-thousand pounds, the agreed upon price." Sherlock leaned in closer to John. His expression was very serious; no doubt, he didn't want there to be any mistakes in the transaction. "Now this is where it gets difficult, John. You have to get the name of the supplier. He knows it—I know he does. Tell him that, for what you're paying, you have a right to know. If he refuses, tell him that you'll take your business elsewhere."

John nodded. "All right. And what if he's fine with all that?"

"That," Sherlock said, as he reached into his coat again, "is where this comes in." He handed the sheet of paper to John, who glanced over it, expecting some miracle answer. He frowned at what he saw.

"Geoffrey Marks, Lisa Marquez, Harold Stubbs, Lance Fisher—who are they?"

"His top customers, he sells to them regularly."

"So?"

"So?" Sherlock spat, rolling his eyes. "How do you live on the streets and not learn a thing or two about drug dealing?"

Is that it, then? Is that why he's been so kind to me? He picked me to do this because he thinks I'm a druggie?

"I don't do drugs," John told him. "Nor do I know anyone that does them, or anyone that sells them. I don't get involved in…that stuff."

Sherlock stared at him blankly for a few seconds, before finally nodding and turning away, instead reaching into his pants pocket and pulling out the earpiece and wire. "Right. Well, that's…that's good. That you don't…do that." He handed John the earpiece, barely the size of his thumbnail. "Here. The left ear tends to work better."

John took the earpiece from him and looked at it cautiously. "So…I just…stick it in there?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and, with one hand on John's shoulder, twisted his body around and, moving his hand from John's shoulder to his jaw, cupped his face while the other hand plucked the device out of John's hand. "Let me," the detective mumbled. "The last thing we need is for this not to work simply because you didn't know how to wear a basic earpiece."

"Forgive me if I live a life free of spying and eavesdropping," John retorted. He tried to twist his head out of Sherlock's hand, but the man tightened his grip.

"Hold still."

"No, don't—get off me!" John grabbed Sherlock's wrist with both of his hands and flung his arm away with more force than he had intended.

Sherlock seemed to be genuinely surprised. He took a small step backwards from John and lifted his hands. "All right," he said, in a soft, slow voice. "Sorry. I'm sorry." He held out and outstretched hand, offering John the earpiece again. "Here. You put it in."

John snatched it out of his hand and grudgingly slid it into his left ear. I'm a doctor, he mumbled to himself. I don't need help sticking something into an ear; I've been doing it for almost twenty years.

"Well," Sherlock said stiffly, "that went…a lot better than I'd expected. Good job."

John settled for a curt nod. "Thanks."

"Do you have any questions? Any at all?" The right corner of the detective's lips quirked upwards—an attempt at a kind smile, perhaps? "Don't be afraid to ask. I would much rather you look stupid now than mess this."

Charming. John straightened up, standing as tall and ramrod as he could, and said, "No, no. Pretty sure I can handle this. Tony Reagan, a banker from Soho. Here to buy twelve ounces of heroin with this—" he raised the envelope that he was clutching in his left hand—"six thousand pounds. Before I do so, I insist that he tells me who his supplier is, and, if he refuses—which he will—I read off the names on this sheet of paper, and tell him that we've all agreed to cut our business with him until we get a satisfactory answer."

Sherlock stared at him, eyes squinted a little. "I didn't even tell you that last bit."

John shrugged casually. "Yeah, well, it doesn't take a genius to figure out where you were going with it."

Sherlock chuckled at this. "That's what I've been trying to tell the officers at the Met, and the ones that the Yard, but they have yet to catch on." He handed John the box and wire, never once moving his eyes away from John's. "Are you frightened?"

Grinning, John took the device from Sherlock and, reaching under his shirt, attached it firmly to his chest. That'll hurt coming off. He shook his head and answered Sherlock's question honestly. "No."

"No?"

"Nope."

The look Sherlock was giving him made it clear that the taller man didn't believe him—at all. "After everything I've told you about him, you're not the least bit frightened? He's more than likely going to be armed—in fact, he probably won't even be alone. You'll be up against two, three, maybe even more people with guns, and if they see that you're lying to them, they won't hesitate to kill you. How does that not frighten you?"

John continued to smirk. Two reasons. One, three people doesn't scare me. At all. I've been up against three thousand people will guns who wouldn't have thought twice about killing me. But, you don't need to know about that, do you, Sherlock? I'll just skip to reason two for you.

"Because," John said coolly, "I'm not afraid to die." He attempted to walk towards the hotel, but Sherlock stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

"He's expecting us, isn't he?"

Sherlock ignored him. "Why? Why aren't you afraid to die? Don't tell me you believe in some 'higher power'. That would be foolish and border on immature. Look at you. Homeless, alone, miserable. What has that higher power done for you lately? Nothing."

"No, no," John said with a wave of his hand. "It's not that."

"Then what?"

John chuckled, and the sound bordered on hysterical. "You're right," he said, nodding enthusiastically. "You are absolutely right. I have nothing to live for." Sherlock opened his mouth, but John didn't let him say anything. "No, no, really. It's just like you said—no friends, no home, no career. No one would care if I died. That, Sherlock, is why I'm not afraid of death. Because whatever happens after we die, it can't be any worse than what I've got right now." He pulled his blazer tighter around his thin frame, and went inside the hotel before Sherlock could say another word.

/break\

John got to McNamara's room without much trouble. Sherlock told him over the headpiece how to get there, and he'd been correct, right to the smallest detail of going past the potted plant at the end of the hallway with the purple carpet. He swallowed, which was, in itself, an ordeal with his nerves, and then knocked firmly and confidently on the door of McNamara's suite.

"I'm a-comin', I'm a-comin, keep 'yer pants on!"

John raised his eyebrows. American. From one of the southern states, no doubt. The door was pulled open roughly, with so much force that John was surprised it didn't rip from its hinges, and then he felt a large, stiff hand grab his arm and yank him inside.

"Git' in here, boy! What, you want every Po-9 in London to see you?"

John cocked his head as he stared at McNamara, eyebrows still up to his brow. "Sorry, what?"

The man standing in front of him was, to put it mildly, not what John had been expecting to see. He was only a few inches taller than himself, stocky, but not exactly fat, and very tanned. He was wearing jeans and a sky-blue button-up shirt. On his feet were brown leather boots that reminded John of the American cowboy movies he had watched as a lad. The man was older, probably in his early fifties, and his face held marks from every year of his life; John couldn't remember ever seeing a more aged face than the one staring right at him.

"Po-9 is an American term for the police," John heard Sherlock saying into his ear. The quality of the earpiece was astounding; it was as if Sherlock was standing right next to him and speaking. "Get out the money."

John reached into his jacket pocket and produced the envelope stuffed with six-thousand pounds. He flipped it out so that McNamara could see it. "Guess you'll be wanting this."

McNamara laughed loudly. "Well, you don't waste any time, do 'ya, Mr. Reagan?" He turned his back and motioned for John to follow him. "Come with me; 'yer stuff's in the bedroom."

John obliged. The bedroom was clean, as if McNamara had either just arrived or was getting ready to leave. A large suitcase was sitting on the prepared bed, zipped shut and obviously full of his belongings. John paused just outside the bedroom door and crossed his arms.

"John, don't follow him!" Sherlock was hissing into his ear. "There's a reason he wants to take you back there; do not follow him!"

John twisted his back and pretended to admire a large panting that was hanging on the wall. He coughed violently, barely managing to let the words 'too late' escape from his lips. As Sherlock had warned him, there were two other men sitting in the room, their eyes boring holes into him. They were sitting across each other at a small card-table beside the closet, where McNamara was currently, digging through small boxes.

"It's not in here!" McNamara growled. He stood up and brushed his hands on his trousers, then turned to the two men at the table. "Sam, Gale, where's the product for Tony Reagan?"

"The fuck

should we know?" one of the men asked. He was totally bald and had huge, rippling muscles in his arms, covered by tattoos of God only knows what. "Don't tell me you lost it."

"Lost it, no," McNamara was saying. "Misplaced it, though, maybe—oh no, wait, here it is!" He bent down and pulled a large plastic bag out of the closet, checking the tag on it only once before turning to John and smiling.

"Sorry for the scare, Mr. Reagan," he said with a wide smile. He held out the bag, and his free hand. "On the count of three, then?"

Both men sitting at the table chuckled. John didn't budge.

"I was hoping to get a few answers from you before we complete the transaction," John said solidly, fighting to keep his voice under control. Sherlock's voice once again entered into his mind, but this time, it was in his thoughts, no his ear.

You have to get the name of the supplier.

"I want you to tell me the name of the supplier," John told McNamara. "Who do you get this from?"

McNamara exchanged surprised expressions with the two men sitting at the table, and then directed his gaze at John. "I hardly think you need to know that, Mr. Reagan. I assure you, my product is of the highest-quality. That's why I have such a reputation."

"I understand that," John said, nodding, "but, for the price I'm paying you, I think I deserve to know."

McNamara laughed again, that same loud, obnoxious laugh from earlier. "Good man," he said. "You stand your ground; I like that." He walked over to John and, glaring down at him, smirked. "But, with all respect, you know my policy. Once an arrangement has been made, there's no refunds. I went through a lot of trouble getting this gettin' this Harry Jones for you."

"John, this was a mistake. Give him the money and get out of there."

Fuck that, John thought to himself, in response to Sherlock's orders. I'm not going to let this bastard scare me into something.

There's a fine line between brave and stupid, soldier. Don't do this. Just do what Sherlock says—give him the money and get the hell out of here.

John's hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Fuck that.

John stared at McNamara, then resolutely reached into his other jacket pocket and retrieved the list of customers Sherlock had given him. He handed it to McNamara. "I've spoken with those folk," he said as the other man took the paper from him and let his eyes dart over it. "Your top customers, if I'm not mistaken. We've agreed that we're not interested in your services anymore, unless you change your mind and tell us where you're getting your product from." He cocked his head casually. "Is that really such a problem?"

McNamara snorted. "I think, Mr. Reagan, if you knew my supplier, you'd be singin' a different tune."

John smiled genially. "I would love to. All I need's the name."

McNamara took a step back from John and, at the same time, the two men at the table, Sam and Gale, stood up.

"You're asking an awful lot of questions," the bald-headed man said. "Why is that?"

John looked at the man. "I could ask you the same thing."

The sound of a gun cocking took his cocky attitude down a few notches—he jerked his head around towards McNamara, who was standing less than five feet away with a revolver aimed at him. It was silver, probably brand-new, and had a silence attached to the muzzle.

"He's right," McNamara growled. "You are asking an awful lot of questions—too many. Gale, check him. Hundred bucks says he's wearing a wire."

Shit.

"John? Was that a gun? I'm—"

John didn't hear the rest of Sherlock's sentence. Sam and Gale were on top of him in an instant. He fought them, and even managed to punch Gale square in the jaw, but a searing pain in his left forearm made him freeze in his tracks. Instinctively his head lowered and his eyes focused on the spot that was now spewing blood—only a graze, enough to remind him who was in control.

Feels familiar, doesn't it? First your shoulder and now your arm—too bad it wasn't your right shoulder. Then, at least, you would have been symmetrical.

The two men ripped John's blazer and shirt off of him, then tore the wired box off of his slim chest. McNamara shook his head, disappointed.

"That's a shame," he said. "I liked you, Reagan. I really did. Why'd you have to go and get involved with the cops?"

John glared at him as Sam and Gale grabbed his arms. He didn't even bother trying to struggle. "I didn't."

McNamara smirked. "Yeah, that's what they all say. As if it's going to help you now." He twisted the silencer off his gun, just long enough to slap John across the face with the revolver. The pain from the blow was almost as bad as the burning sensation coming from his arm. He felt a warm liquid beginning to drip down his chin, and knew instantly that the cut in his lip had been re-opened by the gun. "Seems I'm not the only one you've pissed off lately," McNamara continued. He motioned to his own eyes. "Someone got to those pretty damn good, huh?" He moved his eyes from John's face to Sam's. "Kill him; the cops'll be here any second."

It all happened so fast. The next thing John knew, he heard two loud thumps!, and then the two men on either side of him were slumping to the ground. McNamara was looking at something directly behind John, his eyes widened a bit, but John didn't have to turn around to know who it was.

"Drop the gun," Sherlock said, in a composed, almost bored, voice. "You're right; the cops will be here very soon. If I were you, I'd get out of here while I still could."

McNamara didn't drop the gun, and he didn't leave.

He smiled.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said, nodding. "I ought to have known it was you. You've been trying to catch me since I stepped foot in London. Well done. Only took you five months, but, you know what they say—better late than never."

As soon as the words escaped his lips, John heard the sounds of police sirens approaching. He almost sighed with relief, but when he looked at Sherlock and saw that the man's face was as hard as always, he restrained it. Perhaps they weren't out of the woods yet.

"Here's what's going to happen," Sherlock said, right when the sirens stopped blaring, "you can either go to prison, or you can tell me who you get the drugs from. It's your choice."

John's chest clenched when he heard what Sherlock had said. Seriously? He's going to let him go? He almost killed me! Not to mention the fact that he's selling illegal drugs; why would he let him go free just for a—a name?

McNamara shrugged. "To be honest, neither of those sound good. But, I think I have a third option that—" The loud bang! bang! of gunfire interrupted him. At first John thought that the police had entered the room, but when he turned his back, there was no one. He heard glass shatter and had barely turned his head in time to see McNamara jumping out the window, suitcase in hand.

John made to follow him, but the first step he took, he tripped over something and stumbled. It was then he heard a weak cough and his name being spoken.

"John."

John looked down and instantly dropped to his knees. Sherlock was lying on the ground, bleeding profusely from his stomach.

Shit! You've got to help him.

But not too much, remember? You can't be too obvious. Sure, you could remove the bullet and sew him up right here with stuff you find in the room, but then what? Homeless people can't do that.

"Sod off," he grumbled to himself, eliciting an amused look from Sherlock. For being shot in the stomach, the man didn't seem to be in much pain.

"Me?"

"No," John said quickly. "No, no. Not you."

He leaned across Sherlock and picked up the blazer that Sam and Gale had ripped off of him, then pressed it to Sherlock's wound with as much strength as he could with only one arm—his left was hanging limply at his side; try as he might, he couldn't lift it enough to make the exertion worthwhile.

"There were two bullets," John remembered. "But…you were only shot once. What happened with the other? Did he miss?"

Sherlock gave him a slight, slow nod, and then swallowed forcefully before speaking. "Missed me. I blocked yours."

Well, John hadn't been expecting that. "Really?"

"Hmm."

John was, for once, at a loss for words. He wanted to lock eyes with Sherlock, but the detective had already closed his and was taking slow, shaky breaths.

"I…I don't know what to say," John said. "I mean, thank you, obviously, but…"

John felt a wetness on his hand that pulled him from his thoughts. Sherlock's blood had soaked through the blazer; the wound needed to be seen to in a hospital; where the hell was the squad?

"All right, hands up, now!"

Speak of the devil.

John looked up from Sherlock's body when he heard the voice, which was followed by the loud, hurried footsteps of at least a dozen other people. Some were wearing bright yellow jackets, other just black uniforms, but they were who John had been waiting for. He stood up and looked at the only person in the room that he recognized—Detective Inspector Lestrade.

"He shot him," John explained, pointing at Sherlock. "Mc-McNamara shot him. He was actually aiming for me, but Sherlock took the bullet. It's a stomach wound; you've got to get him to the hospital before—"

"Shut up!" Someone interrupted, the same someone who had told him to raise his hands. John's eyes fell onto the person whom the voice had come from. She was an attractive, slim, black woman, probably in her early-to-mid thirties, with long brown hair that fell to her shoulders. Despite her pleasant looks, she seemed to be very aggressive.

"Who are you?" the woman asked him, glaring at him the whole time. "You work for him?"

"What? No! No, hell no! I'm with—Sherlock asked me to come with him!"

The woman snickered at this. Smirking at him, she said, "If you're going to lie, at least make it believable."

"I'm not lying!" John retorted. "Sherlock, tell them!"

Sherlock didn't respond. The medical team was gently picking him up from the floor and putting him onto the stretcher, but his eyes were still closed.

"Is he all right?" John asked, momentarily forgetting about the accusing eyes of the officers standing before him. "Come on, dammit, answer me!"

Lestrade stepped forward. John had rarely met a person that made him feel insecure or insignificant, but this man was doing an excellent job of it. He loomed over John and spoke to him as if he were a child, slowly and forcefully, like he had to make an effort to keep his tongue under control. "That is not your concern," he told John. "If anything, we should be asking you that."

John cocked his head. "Wait, you—you think I shot him?" He scoffed and, supporting it in his right arm, lifted his left hand to show to Lestrade. "Look! Sherlock's not the only one McNamara shot. Or do you think I did this, too?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes and roughly grabbed John's shoulder, the left one. John had to bite his tongue to keep from cursing, lashing out, or both. "Forgive me if I don't believe you," he said sarcastically.

John shook his head as he felt the cold steel of handcuffs being clasped around his wrists. "No, I don't think I will." He spat. "You can't just go around arresting people because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time!"

"I'm not," Lestrade argued. "It's very obvious to me—to all of us—that you were working with McNamara. Sherlock Holmes doesn't work with anyone, ever. And that spiel about him taking a bullet for you? Bollocks."

"McNamara escaped out the window!" John tried again. "He shot at us, then he jumped out the window. I'm not lying; I'm telling you the truth!"

"I'm sure of it," Lestrade said, grinning at him with mock sympathy. "Donovan, Reisner. Take him back to the station and do the bookkeeping. I'll take a look around here and meet you there."


	5. Chapter Five

Lestrade must've have only glanced at the crime scene before turning around and meeting Sergeant Donovan at the police station, because by the time John had been taken inside and the required paperwork had been brought into the room, Lestrade was knocking on the door and telling Donovan to get back to her desk. She stared pleadingly at him, obviously disappointed, but he nodded his head towards the door. When she'd left and closed the door behind her, Lestrade moved to sit at the table directly across from John.

"You thirsty?"

John shook his head no. He was thirsty, but hadn't noticed until Lestrade mentioned it. As Lestrade pulled his notepad out of his pocket and removed his coat, John risked glancing around the room. The walls were white, the ceiling was white, the floor was gray. There was nothing hanging on the walls, not even a clock or coat hanger.

"Name?"

John only glared at him. "Don't you have someplace to be?" he spat.

Lestrade looked up from his notepad and returned John's unenthusiastic expression. "Actually, no. There's no place I'd rather be right now than sitting in this tiny room with you, prying all I can out of you. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

John cocked his head. "Well, I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure you had a crime scene to be—"

Lestrade waved his hand dismissively. "No, no, no, there's nothing to see there. Not for me, anyway. I've got my best people working on it. Well, all but the one you shot."

John felt his temper beginning to boil up in his chest, but he bent his tongue and returned Lestrade's cheeky grin. "I didn't shoot him." The very mention of Sherlock made the emotion inside of John slowly melt from anger and frustration to concern, and, perhaps, a bit of guilt. "Is he all right?"

This, obviously, caught Lestrade off-guard. "I've no idea," he replied. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and set it on the table then said, in a softer voice, "I…told them to call me when they know something."

John nodded slowly. He's worried about him, too. "It was only a stomach wound," John said casually. "He doesn't seem the type to let something that mundane take him out."

Lestrade chuckled at that. "No. No, he's not that sort. Not at all." He looked at his notepad again. "Back to business. What's your name?"

"John."

Lestrade wrote the name down, the waited for John to give his surname. After a few seconds of silence, he looked up at the man sitting across from him. "John what?"

"Just John."

Lestrade held out his hand. "Give me your ID."

"Can't do that."

"Why?"

"I don't have one."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Why not?"

Fine, Lestrade, you win. I'll say it.

"I'm homeless."

"What do you mean, homeless?"

John rolled his eyes. "What do people usually mean when they say homeless?"

"That's not what I meant. So you didn't think you'd need your ID, you got rid of it, then?"

"Yes."

"Ok," Lestrade said with a nod. "I understand that. A convenient excuse, to be sure, but it makes sense. If you're telling the truth. But those are awfully fancy clothes for a homeless man."

"They're Sherlock's."

Shit.

A beat of silence followed John's confession—no doubt, Lestrade was utterly shocked, and John was so embarrassed his cheeks were flushing. "I didn't mean…I didn't mean that. They're not his. I mean, they are, but…they're for him. He said he needed disguises for his work, and he gave me these clothes to wear when we came to interrogate this guy."

"How did you meet him, then?" Lestrade asked John as he set his pen down onto the table. "Did he pick you up off the street? Take you into his home?"

"No," John snarled. "We ran into each other. Literally. He said he was chasing somebody. McNamara, turns out. He gave me a clipping from the paper and his address and told me to keep an eye out for the guy."

"So you found him?"

John shook his head. "No…I went to his house."

"Why?"

"If you'll stop interrupting me, I'll tell you! I just went to visit him. That was when he told me he found the guy and gave me the clothes. We ate dinner and then we ended up at the hotel. That's what happened."

"And the only reason you came to the hotel was to confront McNamara, correct?"

John raised an eyebrow. "What exactly are you—oh, never mind, I don't want to know. Yes, that was the reason. The only reason."

Lestrade leaned back in his chair, his hands folded across his chest. "What's your last name, John?"

Shaking his head, John told him, "I'd rather not say."

"See, I'd rather you did. Saves me the trouble of going through all the paperwork to get a background check, fingerprint records, government information…you understand, surely?"

John didn't respond. He didn't know what to say. It would only be a matter of hours before his whole life story was revealed, before everyone knew that he was just another pitiful soldier that had been invalided home and hadn't been to adjust to civilian life, so he'd ended up on the streets.

God that sounds pathetic.

Lestrade's phone buzzed on the table, and the older man picked it up and barked his name into the mouthpiece. His eyes widened immediately.

"Hello? Who is this?" Lestrade's eyebrows rose at the answer. "I see…to be honest, I didn't know he had one. Is he all right? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Ok." Lestrade sighed, and a small smile played upon his lips. "Oh, thank God. Thank God. Yes. Yes, all right." The DI glanced up at John and the two men locked eyes. "Um…yes, he's here. How—How did you know? Oh. Ok, yeah. Sure, I'll tell him. Thanks for letting me know. Bye."

Lestrade snapped his phone shut and stood up. "That was Sherlock's brother. He told me your story checks out, and he says you can stay at Baker Street until Sherlock's out of the hospital."

Shaking his head, John says, "No, I—I can't. I mean, that's nice of his brother, but it's Sherlock's place, and I—"

Lestrade waved his hand dismissively. "No, no, don't be daft. He was just telling me what Sherlock told him. Are you going?"

John shrugged his good shoulder and, with one hand gripping the back of his chair, pulled himself up, clenching his teeth. "I suppose so. It'd be rude to turn him down. Besides, my cat's still there."

Lestrade furrowed his eyebrows. "Your cat?"

"Yeah. I had it when I stopped by his house. She's still there." He cocked his head thoughtfully. "What's the easiest way to get back to Baker Street from here?"

Lestrade reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, which he jingled in his hand. "My car. Come on, I'll give you a ride."

John shook his head. "No, that's all right. I can manage."

"Please," Lestrade insisted, "it's the least I can do."

John still looked hesitant, so Lestrade tried again. "Come on. I can tell your leg's bothering you. Just accept the help and be grateful for it."

Something snapped inside of John at that moment, and he turned to Lestrade, hands clenched into fists. "I don't need your help! I didn't ask for it, I don't need it, I don't want it!"

Lestrade shrugged and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Fine." He opened the door for John and watched as the man drug himself out of the room, then followed him down the hallway at a distance. John stopped when he got to the front door of the station—snow was falling in a thick blanket outside, and the ground was already dusted with a white layer.

John pulled Sherlock's blazer tighter around his body, then rolled his eyes when he heard Lestrade clear his throat behind him.

"It's not too late," the DI told him. John refused to look at him, but the man continued speaking. "I understand that you don't want to accept help. Really, I do. But there's pride, and then there's stupidity. You're reeking of a bit of both right now."

Well. He told you, didn't he?

John turned to Lestrade and drummed his hands against his sides. Not only did it show how agitated he was, but it was also a great way to get his mind off the pain throbbing in his leg. "Fine, all right."

There you go. Just let him give you a ride—he obviously feels awful about the 'misunderstanding'. And he's Sherlock's friend; he probably doesn't want to let him down. Oh yeah, that new guy you met—John. First I arrested and interrogated him, and then I let him walk all the way back to Baker Street in the wind and the snow. Sorry about that.

John smirked. Even though he hardly knew Sherlock at all, he knew that that kind of behavior wouldn't blow over well.

He followed Lestrade to the back of the building and climbed into the offered vehicle. They had barely pulled out of the station when Lestrade broke the silence.

"I've known him for five years, you know."

John nodded slowly. So what? "Ok…I've known him for barely five days."

"He's never brought anyone with him on a case," Lestrade continued, staring at the road in front of him. "Ever. So why'd he bring you?"

John shrugged his good shoulder. "You've known him five years; you tell me."

Lestrade chuckled. "No idea. I know hardly anything about him. Hell, I didn't even know he had a brother until the man called me just now."

"Does it annoy you? That instead of calling someone he's known for five years to help out, he recruits some bloke off the street?"

Lestrade shook his head. "No. I wouldn't have expected him to ask me; as far as we were concerned, the case was closed. It doesn't bother me."

John sighed thoughtfully. "Well, it certainly would have bothered me."

Phree was sleeping on the Union Jack pillow when John returned to the flat. She barely opened her eyes to look at him as he came in, and then closed them almost instantly. In the corner of the room was a small cat box and a bowl of food and water, no doubt put there by Mrs. Hudson while he and Sherlock were gone.

Without the sun filtering in through the tall windows, the flat looked incredibly dark, and even a bit lonely. John clicked on the lamp sitting on the end table and sat down in Sherlock's green leather chair, then proceeded to rub the offending leg. It hadn't hurt him this bad since his first night on the streets, when it had been exposed to the bitter cold and biting winds.

A few moments later, the sharp stings of pain had dulled into a heavy tensing. John picked up the book sitting on the end table—the only one in reach—and looked at the cover. The Holy Bible. John flipped it open to his favorite verse, Philippians chapter four, verse six: fret not about anything, but in everything, by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known unto God.

Yeah, lot of good that did me, John thought to himself bitterly. God, please don't let me get hurt. God, please let me save him. God, please let him live. God, please let me get through this. Well, none of that happened, did it?

John didn't sleep at all that night. He couldn't. Seeing Sherlock get shot had revived the images of his fallen comrades. Every time he closed his eyes he saw their pale faces and heard their blood-curling screams. In between every image of his fellow soldiers he saw Sherlock collapsing onto the ground and heard his uncharacteristically weak voice: missed me. I blocked yours.

The sun was creeping up into the sky. John walked over to the window and leaned against it, enjoying the feeling of the cool glass against his cheek. Phree was still sleeping on the flag pillow; John wasn't sure if she'd moved at all the whole night.

He considered for a moment going for a walk, but soon decided against it—he spent enough time on the streets unwillingly, now that he had the heating, he was going to enjoy it while he could. As soon as Sherlock got discharged, he'd be back home, and John would be back on the streets.

John's stomach growled. He went into the kitchen and opened the cupboard, hoping to find something cheap that he could eat for breakfast—he certainly didn't want to eat all of Sherlock's food, what kind of guest would he be then? The cupboard was almost bare. The only things John could see in it was a box of Muesli and a couple of small jars. John pulled them down, hoping to find sugar, cinnamon, anything to cover the sawdust-like texture of the Muesli. He cracked open the first jar and immediately gasped and dropped it onto the counter.

The jaw was filled with human nail clippings—fingers and toes, all yellowed and dried out. John shuddered and immediately replaced the jar in the cabinet, along with the others. After seeing that, finding sugar suddenly didn't seem all that important.

He grabbed a bowl from the dish drainer and set it and the Muesli on the table, then cracked open the refrigerator and pulled out the carton of milk. He took his time eating, enjoying every bite. After living on the streets and eating other peoples' garbage, Muesli suddenly tasted like one of the best things he'd ever eaten, and he found that he didn't really need anything else added to it.

John spent the rest of the day flipping through the many books that Sherlock had on his shelves. There were books on all sorts of subjects, from fingerprinting to geology, from American history to Chinese dining rituals.

What could he possibly need with all these? Why would he need to know about…the Australian outback? Canadian tourist attractions? Muslim traditions? Doesn't he have any fiction here?

John closed the book on naval warfare he had been reading. As enlightening and interesting as it had been, he'd always been one for fiction stories, ever since he was a child. He looked at the clock hanging up on the wall—one o'clock. He was getting restless. The soldier in him so badly wanted to pick up the trash off the floor and unpack the boxes until everything was put up in its proper place, but, of course, as it wasn't his home, he had no idea where the 'proper' place even was.

Another day went by, and John still couldn't sleep. He'd tried the couch, the chairs, the floor, but he couldn't get comfortable. He yawned. The lack of sleep was catching up with him. He stood and, picking up Phree as he went, went into Sherlock's bedroom. After setting Phree onto the bed, John climbed on top of the blankets, folded them over himself, and then closed his eyes. As his luck would have it, as soon as he was about to enter into sleep, he heard the living room door open, then heard muffled voices. John immediately shot out of the bed and slid out of Sherlock's bedroom as discreetly as he could. His mouth dropped open in surprise when he saw who had entered the room.

Sherlock was home. He was leaning against a taller, brown-haired man, who had a sharp nose and a face that looked like he meant business. He wasn't a large man, but he didn't have Sherlock's crane-like appearance. The man had his arm linked through Sherlock's and looked to be dragging him into the room.

"What are you doing here?" John asked. He was a bit embarrassed at the shrieking tone in his voice, but he couldn't control it—why the hell was Sherlock home?

"What's he doing here?" John snarled, turning to the other man. "He was shot, for Christ's sake! He needs to be in the hospital!"

The man raised his eyebrows as he led Sherlock to his chair and gently helped him ease himself into it. "You're telling me this? I'm all too aware. Trust me. But he—" the man cast an angry nod in Sherlock's direction—"would have nothing of it. He was making the entire staff miserable, and that's not even saying anything for the other patients in the ward."

John knelt down next to Sherlock and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. "Hey," he said softly. "How ya' doing?"

Sherlock didn't look at him; his head was dropped and his gaze was directed at the ground. John could tell that he was wearing a thick bandage on his stomach; his shirt was bunched up around the area. His face and hands were pale, not surprising with the amount of exertion his body was going through.

"'m fine," Sherlock mumbled. John rolled his eyes.

"Fine? Sherlock, no. You're not fine. What are you doing out of the hospital?"

The man standing behind John cleared his throat. "I do believe I've already told you that."

"I wasn't asking you!" John snapped, not looking away from Sherlock for a second. He was relieved to see a small smile creep onto the detective's face.

"Told—Told you he was smart…Mycroft."

"Mycroft," John repeated. He turned around to look at the man. "I'm guessing you're his brother?"

"Obviously, John," Mycroft replied. "No one else can put up with him at all, much less after he's been shot." Mycroft stretched out his right hand to John. "Mycroft Holmes," he said, stating the obvious. "Pleasure to meet you."

John took the hand half-heartedly. "You too."

Mycroft looked at his watch, and John felt his eyes widen at the sight of it. It was a large gold watch with a black leather strap. It looked like it must've cost a fortune.

Mycroft tapped the screen when he saw that John was looking at it. "Essential for my work," he explained. He unlatched it and held it out for John to look at. "As you can see, it shows world time-very useful in my line of work."

"Uh-huh. And what might your line of work be?"

Mycroft returned the watch to his wrist as he said, "I hold a minor position in the British government. Nothing too exciting, really." He glanced at his brother, who was still sitting in his chair, his head still bowed against his chest. "I'll be back to check on you later," Mycroft told him. "Don't do anything stupid."

And with those final words, he turned to leave. John's heartbeat instantly doubled in speed. "Hey, hey, wait!" he called after Mycroft. "You can't just leave him here! He needs a doctor, he—"

Oh.

Shit.

"I have a doctor," Mycroft explained, and John felt himself relax—he only hoped it wasn't obvious to Mycroft and Sherlock that he had. "He'll be around tonight, then in the morning, then tomorrow afternoon, then tomorrow evening, then in the morning."

"I get it," John said, waving his hand to motion to Mycroft to stop talking. "But still, I'd feel better if he was in the hospital, or, at the very least, under 24-hour supervision."

"He will be," Mycroft answered with a small grin.

"Oh?"

"Yes, John. By you."


	6. Chapter Six

The rest of the day, Sherlock sat in his armchair and either slept or read. As guilty as John felt about the man being so critically injured, John was absolutely in love with his current situation—watching after Sherlock had put him back into full-blown doctor mentality. For the rest of the day, Sherlock's wellbeing was first priority, whether that meant fetching him a cup of his favorite spiced Chai tea or wiping away the drainage from his wound. The first time, Sherlock had commented on John's expertise.

"You do that like a professional."

John had tried to shrug off the remark. "Yes, well, it's not exactly brain surgery."

You should know, he'd reminded himself. You've assisted in…twenty-eight neurosurgeries. Or is it twenty-seven? No, no, it's twenty-eight.

At six o'clock, Mycroft's promised physician, Doctor Jaeger, had stopped by. He was a tall, slim man with salt-and-pepper hair and hard, serious eyes. He'd come in, taken Sherlock's vitals, cleaned his wound—even though John had done so less than an hour ago—and given John a bottle of Avinza, which John knew to be, basically, morphine in pill form. He didn't have to read the back of the bottle to know the directions, one pill, once a day.

John had been, to put it mildly, less than impressed with the doctor's bedside manner. He'd been rough with Sherlock—grabbing his wrist to take his pulse, strapping the blood pressure cuff a few inches too tightly around his bicep, pushing him back in his chair to listen to his heartbeat.

It didn't totally surprise him, though, that Sherlock didn't seem to care about the uncompassionate way he was being treated, but John still didn't like it. When the doctor left, John had walked out with him.

"Not overly friendly, are you?" he had asked.

The man had turned around and, with raised eyebrows, said in disbelief, "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Your bedside manner could use improving."

Jaeger snorted. "That man doesn't care about bedside manner. Actually, I think he'd rather not have it. I'm only here because I owe Mycroft a favor; I don't have to like it."

"Even so, you should respect him! Sherlock—"

"Is a self-righteous bastard that no one likes. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm late for my rounds at the surgery. Good evening." With those final words, Dr. Jaeger left 221B Baker Street, leaving John alone again with the so-called 'self-righteous bastard'. His hands clenched into angry fists, John returned to Sherlock's flat.

"He wasn't a very nice man," John mumbled, more to himself than to Sherlock. "Not a very nice doctor."

" 's the point of being a nice—nice doctor?" Sherlock sputtered from his place in his chair. "What—what good does that do the patient?"

John shrugged and sat down on the couch, rubbing his leg tenderly. "Well, you know. It helps calm them down. It develops a connection between them."

"I am perfectly calm."

"Let me rephrase: it helps calm most people down."

"And by most, you mean, normal?"

"No," John said, hissing sharply when his hand came into contact with a particularly sensitive knot in his leg. "By most, I mean most. Now who's the one that needs to clean out his ears?"

Sherlock chuckled softly. "What I don't need is bedside manner. Doctors take so much time thinking about whether or not their—their patients are comfortable with them that their skills start to lack. Personally, I'd much prefer to have a sociopathic genius than a charming imbecile."

"Just because someone's charming doesn't mean they're an imbecile," John argued, but he stopped when he saw Sherlock's chest heaving in and out—the discussion was talking a toll on Sherlock, and John put a stop to it. Grabbing the wet wag on the end table next to Sherlock's chair, he wiped the detective's perspiring face and pulled the blanket tighter around his thin frame. "Now, enough. Get some rest."

It was a little after nine o'clock when John was shaken away by Mycroft Holmes. The elder Holmes looked terrible; his eyes were bloodshot and as soon as John was awake, Mycroft collapsed onto the couch at the far end of the room.

John smiled politely. "Tired?"

Mycroft nodded. "That's putting it mildly. Work has kept me exceedingly busy and now this whole situation with Sherlock…" Mycroft glanced over at his brother, who was sleeping with his head slumped onto his chest, and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "If he would only listen to me for once in his life, things would be better for both of us. I worry about him. Constantly. This flat, for example," Mycroft said, waving his hand in the air, "I told him that he couldn't afford it. Even with the landlady cutting him a deal, the occupation of consulting detective is not dependable, nor is it lucrative, especially when he doesn't charge for half the cases he takes on!"

John bit his lip, tossing Mycroft's words over in his mind. "Maybe…maybe he doesn't think the money's important. Maybe he just wants to help people."

Mycroft smirked. "No, John, that's not it at all. He doesn't care about the people, he cares about the work. Only the work. If he doesn't have some kind of puzzle to occupy his thoughts, he—" Mycroft paused midsentence, as if barely catching himself from continuing the sentence, "—well. He does things that he shouldn't." Mycroft stood and shook John's hand. "Good evening, John. You will tell him I came by, won't you?"

John nodded. "If you want me to, of course."

Mycroft gave him a single curt nod before turning and exiting the flat. As soon as he'd shut the door behind him, John jumped at the sound of Sherlock's voice.

"You shouldn't believe a word he says."

"Christ, you scared me," John said, rolling his eyes slightly. "I thought you were sleeping."

"Yes, because that's what I wanted you to think." Sherlock had raised his head and was sitting with both hands pressed to his wound. "I'm ready for my pills."

John nodded and reached into his pocket. "Oh, yes…what time is it now? About nine twenty, all right."

As he popped the bottle open, Sherlock told him, "Don't worry about the time. I'll take them when I need them."

John shook his head. "No, Sherlock, you won't. This is powerful medicine; you can't just get careless and take it whenever the mood strikes you."

"Watch me," Sherlock said sourly. "I don't get careless."

John snorted. "Really? I'd say that whole affair with McNamara could've been a bit more thought-out."

Sherlock didn't reply. He took the pill from John and downed it with a swallow from the glass of lukewarm tea still sitting next to him. John waited for him to say something—anything—but Sherlock simply swallowed the pill and then opened one of the books John had brought him earlier—The Book of Stones. John wanted to ask him why in the world he needed to know about stones—a hobby of his, perhaps?—but there was something more pressing on his mind.

"Why shouldn't I believe your brother?"

"Because his sole purpose in life is to make mine difficult," Sherlock said coldly, not bothering to glance up from his book. "He's not nearly as concerned as he makes himself out to be."

A cryptic answer if John had ever heard one. He decided to leave the matter be and picked up the book on naval warfare; he'd been spending so much time reading the last few days that he was almost finished with it already. About an hour later, John forced Sherlock to drink two cups of water and eat a few bites of yogurt, and then he changed his bandage and helped him get settled into his bed.

Sherlock took his help without so much as a 'thank you', and John found that he wasn't very surprised with the man's lack of gratitude. In fact, he hadn't been expecting any. After all, he told himself, he did save your life.

John stretched out onto the couch and closed his eyes. It had been a long day, worrying about Sherlock, making sure that his every need was attended to, and ruminating about how it was his fault that Sherlock was even in the position he was in. It's not your fault! He didn't have to save you!

Don't be stupid, of course he did. This was all his idea. If you had've died, he would be responsible for it.

John wasn't sure how long he was lying on the couch, eyes closed, fingers folded over his stomach, when he heard his name being called. At first he ignored it—surely he was dreaming. Why would someone be yelling for him?

Sherlock.

John was off the couch and on his feet in one fluid motion, and he approached Sherlock's room with as much speed as he could master with a bum leg. "Sherlock? Are you all right?"

"Get this thing off of me!" Sherlock snarled as John pushed the door open. He hadn't closed it fully, just so he could hear Sherlock in cases like this, but it was only ajar a few inches.

"What are you—" John began, only to stop mid-sentence and mid-step when he saw the scene before him. Sherlock was still just as John had left him: head propped up on the pillow, blankets pulled up almost to his chin, arms at his sides. There was only one difference. Phree was sitting on Sherlock's stomach, thankfully a few inches further down than his injury, but still close enough to cause him pain.

John permitted himself a small smile as he approached the bed and gently plucked Phree off of Sherlock. "You couldn't push her off you?"

Sherlock shook his head stubbornly. "Of course not. I was comfortable. Besides, she's your animal, ergo, your responsibility."

John shrugged half-heartedly. "Fine. Sorry. I'll keep her out."

"See that you do."

Thankfully, the rest of the night went uninterrupted. John returned to the couch with Phree—and, of course, she instantly curled up on his stomach, just as she had on Sherlock's—and fell asleep immediately, dreaming of his days in the service. He saw his patients' faces, heard their cries of pain, and heard them asking him for his help. It was a nightmare that he couldn't escape from even if he woke, because not only were they images of a nightmare, but they were his memories.

The next day was rather uneventful. Sherlock's condition was stable; John changed his bandages and attended to his every need just as he had the day prior. Doctor Jaeger visited at exactly six o'clock and stayed for only a few moments. The only difference was that around lunchtime, Detective Inspector Lestrade had knocked upon the living room door. Sherlock had told John that he didn't want to see the man, but one look at Lestrade's concerned face made John open the door and invite him inside.

Sherlock wasn't rude to him, per se, but he wasn't overly friendly. When John asked Lestrade if he wanted tea, Sherlock spoke up: "He doesn't need any tea." John asked Lestrade if he'd gotten any leads on McNamara, and Sherlock had snorted in amusement. Now that John had calmed down about the wrongful arrest, he was beginning to realize what a kind man Lestrade was. No matter what Sherlock said to him, Lestrade ignored it or used the comment to poke fun at himself, but he never, ever, said something callous in response.

The next day, John had finally managed to swallow his pride enough to ask Sherlock if he could use his shower. Sherlock had said yes. Mrs. Hudson brought them lunch, and also brought fresh cat litter and food for Phree. John thanked her profusely and had offered to do work around the property to pay her back, but she had smiled and said, "You're taking care of my Sherlock, and that's payment enough."

It was now Thursday, and Sherlock was doing much better. He was walking around the flat, picking up books and newspapers, even mixing chemicals in his beakers, without any assistance whatsoever from John.

You know what this means, don't you? Soon he won't need you. Soon, he'll tell you to get out.

John tried to push the idea out of his mind. He's walking around, so what? He's still weak. He's still on a soft diet. His dressing still needs changing every couple of hours, he's as white as a sheet, he—

John's thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. When he answered it, he felt his breath catch in his throat for a split-second. Standing in the doorway was a beautiful woman, anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-five years old, with dark brown hair that framed her thin face and vibrant green eyes that crinkled under furrowed eyebrows when she looked at John. No doubt he still looked a sight, with his shaggy hair, stubbled face, and wrinkly clothes.

"Sherlock Holmes?" she asked, in a soft, but confident, voice.

John shook his head. "He's sleeping right now. Can I take a message?"

The woman shook her head urgently. "No, please, I'm sorry, but could you wake him up? I'm very much in need of his advice, and I—"

John held his finger up to silence the woman. Before speaking, he gathered himself up, and made sure to put on his sternest, most militant persona. "I'm sorry, but I can't. He got shot a few days ago and needs all the sleep he can get. If you want to leave your name and number, I'll make sure he contacts you when he's doing better."

"But I can't—"

"Name, and number," John interrupted, firmly. "I would tell you to stop by again, but it's hard to say when he'll be up for anything."

The woman looked at John pleadingly before conceding and scribbling her name and phone number onto a shred of newspaper that John provided for her. As soon as John had assured the woman once more that he'd be sure to pass her information on to Sherlock and had shut the door, he turned around to see none other than Sherlock Holmes standing in the doorframe of his room, glaring at him.

"Sherlock!" John said, startled. "I thought you were asleep."

"Why did you send her away?" Sherlock snapped, approaching John. "Why would you do that?"

John cocked his head. "Did you know her?"

"No I didn't know her!" Sherlock said, exasperated, as if that piece of information was obvious. "She was a client! She needed my help! And you just—pushed her away!"

"Oh, so you—you wanted to help her?"

"Yes!"

"Funny," John said as he crossed his arms. "Your brother said you didn't care about helping people. He said that you only did this to solve the puzzle. To keep your brain working."

"And I told you to not believe a word he says," Sherlock retorted. He held out his hand. "Give it."

John refused. "No. You need to rest. You can't rest if you're trying to do—well—whatever it is she wanted you to do."

"John," Sherlock said, sternly. "Give it to me."

Again, John refused. "No, Sherlock! Listen, I can tell you hate being told what to do, but I really think the best thing for you right now is to just stay in bed and take it easy!"

"Staying in bed and taking it easy isn't going to pay the rent, John!" Sherlock argued.

Ah. So that's it.

John nodded in understanding. "A bit short on funds for the month, are you?" Sherlock didn't answer, just sat down on the couch. John hadn't really expected him to. John walked over and sat down on cushion on the other end. "I would help you, you know. If I could."

Sherlock smirked. "I'm sure of it."

"You're just not in the shape to be out running around solving mysteries," John said gently. "Isn't there some other way you could get some money?"

"Oh, sure!" Sherlock said sarcastically. "I could go to my brother! Like hell that's going to happen."

"You know, he doesn't have to give you the money necessarily. Can't you just borrow it from him?"

"No, no, no, you don't understand. Mycroft would hold it over my head for as long as I lived, just as he does everything else. No, the only way I could take money from Mycroft is if I won it, fair and square."

"Won it? You mean like betting?"

Sherlock nodded. "Could be. He doesn't act like it, but my brother has the same capacity for deduction as myself. In some cases, he's even more skillful than me. If there was some way that he and I could deduce something about someone, that would be a fair bet." Sherlock's eyes widened slightly when the words slipped his mouth. "Perfect, John! Perfect!"

John felt his heart sink as he realized where Sherlock was going with this. "What's perfect?"

"Mycroft and I will analyze you, and you can tell us which is correct."

John tried to smirk carelessly, a feeble attempt to cover up his discomfort. "Nah, you wouldn't want to know anything about me. I'm boring. I'm normal."

"That's just it, though," Sherlock argued. "When I look at you, when I'm around you, I feel that you're boring, yet there's something about you that's not. I can't quite put my finger on it."

"Well, if you're so good at deducing, why haven't you already figured it out?"

Sherlock snorted. "To be honest, I haven't been trying."

"Oh? Why's that?"

Sherlock smiled at him, only for a split-second, more of a flash grin than an actual smile.

"Because you didn't want me to."


	7. Chapter Seven

BAM! BAM!

"Watson! WATSON, you wanker! We need you here, now!"

"Just leave him; he's a goner!"

"You can't save him! YOU CAN'T SAVE HIM!"

John jolted awake. Sunlight was filtering in through the windows and illuminating the sitting room. He was lying on the couch, half-covered by a thin afghan, and Sherlock was standing over him, two fingers pressed firmly into his left shoulder. Then, the pain hit.

He slapped Sherlock's hand away immediately with a hiss. "Don't touch me," he said, and his voice came out as more of a snarl than he'd intended.

Sherlock's initial response was a quizzical cocking of his head, followed by turning and walking over to the window, staring down into the street. "You were dreaming," he said softly. "A nightmare, no doubt."

John rolled his eyes as he stood up. His right hand automatically found his now-throbbing shoulder and pressed on it firmly. He'd take pressure over pain any day. After twisting his hips around in a full stretch, he looked over in Sherlock's direction. "Oh I was, was I?"

Way to play dumb. You know you were, for Christ's sake, you've had them nearly every night since you left Afghanistan.

"Yes."

John frowned. He had hoped Sherlock would be a bit more elaborative. Then again, it shouldn't have come as a huge surprise—after only a week of knowing the man, John knew that Sherlock Holmes didn't say any more or less than suited him. Even Lestrade, who had known Sherlock for five years, said that he barely knew anything about the man, said that he had only just found out that he had a brother.

John felt a surge of pride at this realization, but it was almost instantly followed by the stabbing pain of apprehension. Why was Sherlock taking such an interest in him? Why did he open up his home to John, give him a scarf, a meal, a warm place to sleep? Why did he take him to confront McNamara?

"My brother will be here shortly," Sherlock told him, turning away from the window to face John.

Seeing Sherlock standing at near-full height again—he was still just a tad bit bent at the waist and hunched in the shoulders—John could see how the last few days had affected him. Thankfully, the wound hadn't been anywhere as serious as it could've been, he could've died, truth be told, but now he was here, standing before John, as alert as ever. His skin was sickly pale, his hair was dirty and lying flat on his head, his body was even more even ganglier than it had been a week ago when they meet, but Sherlock's light green-gray eyes were as alert as ever.

John nodded. "Right. I think he likes me, your brother."

Sherlock shrugged carelessly. "Yes, I'm sure he does. You haven't given him any reason not to."

"He was worried about you," John told him. "It must be nice."

Cocking his head, Sherlock walked past John and into the kitchen, where he poured himself a small bowl of muesli and milk. "What do you mean by that?" he called to John.

John, at hearing the scratching sounds of the cereal sliding into the bowl, all but sprinted into the kitchen and yanked it out of Sherlock's hand. "No, no, no, I'll eat this, you stick with yogurt."

Sherlock groaned. "I'm sick of yogurt!"

"Yes, and I'm sure it's sick of you too, but you can't go shoving this,"—he shook the cereal box for emphasis—"down your throat; your stomach can't handle it. You need to eat soft foods."

Sherlock clenched his jaw, no doubt to keep himself from saying something in rebuttal. John took the opportunity to reach into the refrigerator and get two yogurts out for Sherlock, strawberry and vanilla. He handed them to the detective and then sat down across from him at the table.

You realize what you just did there, don't you? I'll eat this. What, it's your house now? Your food? You're getting too comfortable here, soldier.

John shook his head in a feeble attempt to get his own thoughts of his mind. Shut up, shut up, shut up!

"What I meant," John said after taking a large bite of muesli, "is that you're lucky that you have someone who gives a damn about you."

Sherlock snorted. "Well, lucky's not quite the word I would use for it."

"No, really. You should appreciate it."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, though he didn't sound sorry at all. "I didn't realize that it was important to appreciate being told what to do and what not to do, being told how to live your life. He tries to act like my father."

John felt a pang in his stomach at Sherlock's words. His family hadn't shown any real interest in him whatsoever while he was growing up, which, he was convinced, was what had driven him into the army in the first place. He'd been an above-average student and had several job offers upon graduating from Bart's, but he was more than ready to get out of London, so he had enlisted. It was, he decided upon reflection, both the best and worst decision he'd ever made.

After eating the strawberry yogurt, Sherlock stood and twisted around, then dropped his spoon into the sink. He walked out of the kitchen and John heard him slump down into one of the living room chairs.

With a slight roll of his eyes, John stood up—a challenge; his leg was hurting more than usual this morning—and dropped his own bowl and spoon in the sink before returning Sherlock's uneaten vanilla yogurt the fridge. He then turned back to the sink and washed the three dishes in it quickly but thoroughly before joining Sherlock in the living room. John sat down on the couch and began rubbing his leg tenderly, kneading it in all the right spots. He sighed appreciatively as the stabbing pain eased back into the dull, ever-present throb that he was used to.

A soft knock at the door pulled John's attention from his leg and Sherlock's from yesterday's newspaper. They both glanced at their front door to see Mycroft standing there, taking up almost the whole doorframe. He was wearing a gray tweed suit with a white shirt and dark red tie. In his right hand he held his umbrella, which he was tapping against the floor.

"Good morning, John," he said cordially, and then let his gaze move from John to his brother. He nodded curtly. "Sherlock."

Sherlock gave him one of his faster-than-light sarcastic smiles, and Mycroft's frown deepened, but he didn't comment on his brother's mockery. Instead, he walked over to the vacant chair across from Sherlock and sat down. He stared at Sherlock for only a few seconds longer, and then twisted around to look at John.

"So, John," Mycroft said, a small smirk on his face, as he crossed his legs and let his umbrella drop to the floor beside him, "my brother tells me that you volunteered yourself to be at our deductive mercy."

John immediately glared at Sherlock, only to find that the detective once again had his nose buried in the post. Damn it, Sherlock! John tried to fight his emotions, and managed to plaster a tiny smile onto his face. "Oh, did he now?"

"Yes. Although I must admit, it came as quite a surprise. Most people get unnerved when Sherlock tells them their own life story."

John nodded as he remembered the discussion Sherlock and he had had about the topic. "Yes, that's what he said. Now, look, I just want to make it clear, I didn't exactly volunteer for this. I was trying to help him—"

"You're not lazy, that much is obvious," Mycroft interrupted, his eyes scrunching up as he scrutinized John. "So your reason for being on the streets isn't due to a lack of work ethic, leading to the inability to find a job." His head twitched thoughtfully. "But, in this economy, that's hardly unheard of."

"Maybe he works on a freelance basis," Sherlock suggested, not looking up from the paper. "Yes, he's been invaluable to me this past week, but he's also been performing a variety of tasks."

Mycroft nodded slowly. "I suppose that's a viable solution. The rigor of a regular nine-to-five job didn't appeal to you, so you did small jobs, or perhaps something in the field of fine arts, until the income was no longer sufficient.

"When I first met you, John, you put the health of my brother as your first and foremost priority. I'll be honest; this was rather surprising to me at first, until I stood back and analyzed your situation. You'd known Sherlock only a few short days before he invited you here—" Mycroft raised his hands to motion that he was referring to the flat—"and he fed you, gave you a place to sleep, items that you didn't have access to before—a shower, a toothbrush, hairbrush, clean clothes. Then it became obvious to me. You feel indebted to him."

John shrugged carelessly. "Yeah, so?"

Mycroft smiled at him, a smile that would have scared John had he not known that Mycroft really was a kind and caring man. There was just something about his grin that John didn't feel comfortable with.

Mycroft shook his head. "Nothing, John. Just thinking out loud."

"Both your leg and shoulder were injured before we met," Sherlock stated suddenly. John looked at him, only to be met with the man's piercing gaze. "Then you were beat up, and then shot by McNamara's goons. I noticed you bandaged your arm?"

John's eyes immediately fell on his left forearm. Yes, he had bandaged the wound late the night he'd been brought back to Baker Street by Lestrade. It wasn't a serious injury, more of a deep scratch.

"Then there was the way you handled my own injury," Sherlock continued. "You changed my dressing like a pro. No doubt you have some past experience in caring for wounds."

John felt his cheeks begin to burn, and he leaned back in the couch, hoping he could hide the reddening tint from the Holmes brothers. Sherlock was getting awfully close to home, and he didn't like it one bit. John nodded nonchalantly. "Yes, well, living on the streets, you either figure out how to take care of yourself, or you die. Simple as that."

"It's not only that," Sherlock continued. "It's not at all hard to tell that you've got pride issues. You've got bruises and scars all over your body; obviously, you don't let people get the best of you without a fight. Even when I told you to leave McNamara's apartment, you refused. When I met you, you had a clean face and clean hands, your clothes were void of mud stains, grass, blood, and etcetera. I've never seen a homeless man that took as much pride in his appearance."

John chuckled and shook his head. "It's not that I care about what I look like, exactly…I just don't want to look gross."

"You're a vagrant, John," Mycroft said gently. "People expect you to look gross."

"But you hold yourself to a higher standard," Sherlock pressed. "Not only do you try to make yourself look socially acceptable, but you act like it too. You were hesitant to take my scarf, to come into the flat, hell, I had to all but shove that Chinese down your throat."

"Yes, fine!" John interrupted, holding up his hands as if to stop their words. "You're right. I don't like accepting charity. I don't like being so helpless. Call it pride, stubbornness, stupidity, whatever you want."

"Oh, we never doubted any of that, John," Mycroft told him as he uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "What we don't know is why. Why are you so reluctant to accept help? Why do you hold yourself to such a high standard, even when it clearly makes your life even harder than it already is?"

John shrugged. "I don't know," he said simply.

"Perhaps he's overcompensating," Sherlock suggested to his brother. John could no longer fight the blush that was rising to his cheeks, and they instantly turned a deep red shade.

"What?"

Sherlock stared at John, his head cocked and his brow furrowed. "I meant you're overcompensating for your height, or rather, lack thereof," he said slowly, as if speaking to a child. "By refusing to accept help, by picking fights, you may be attempting to show that you can take care of yourself. Why, what did you think I meant?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes at Sherlock's ignorance; obviously, even he understood the cultural reference. He leaned back into his chair and interlaced his fingers together, then let his chin rest on top of them. "I don't understand," Mycroft said softly, as if more to himself than to John or his brother. "There is nothing explicitly special about you. You're a homeless man who simply doesn't want to accept his position. Your posture, your facial expressions, your manner of speaking—they all seem, to me, to be expressive of a broken man."

John's eyes shot up to meet Mycroft's as the words left the man's lips, and Mycroft nodded slowly.

"Ah. So I'm correct?"

John didn't answer, just continued to stare at Mycroft as the man looked him over. "You're prideful. Very well, that's hardly a rare find in this day and age. Sherlock tells me you have no friends and family that you can, or rather, that you would go to. Yet, you rescued an animal off the streets. You helped to nurse my brother back to health. Something is keeping you from opening up to people. But what?"

John smirked, although it held none of the pride or pleasure that the action normally does. "That's for me to know, and you to find out."

Mycroft left shortly after, and John breathed a sigh of relief when he was gone. Now, almost four hours later, John felt himself wishing that he'd walked out the door too. Sherlock had been staring at him constantly. He'd hardly even tried to be discreet about it, opting instead to look at John over the book he was reading or the laptop screen. Even during their lunch, every time Sherlock brought his cup of water up to his lips, he was staring at John over the top of it. No doubt, he was trying to learn anything about everything about John that he could.

Doctor Jaeger stopped in and was there for a mere five minutes; he pulled Sherlock's shirt up and pressed gently on the wound, then grunted in satisfaction, told Sherlock he was going to be fine, asked him how he was doing on pain meds, and then left.

John…everyone's leaving him. So, what are you still doing here?

John stood up and bit his bottom lip nervously. Sherlock, of course, was watching him. John dropped his hands to his sides and forced a smile onto his face.

"I'd better be going," he said softly.

Sherlock's brow furrowed and his face deepened into a slight frown. "Going…where?"

You can't stay with him forever. You're nothing but a burden to him. Get out and let him get back to his life.

John chuckled and shrugged his right shoulder. "Well, home."

Sherlock stared up at him with a blatantly confused expression. "John, you…you don't have a home."

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock," John said, chuckling again, although anyone with a brain and an ear could tell that it was forced. "But, you're better now, and McNamara, I'm sure, is long out of the country, so there's nothing left for me to do but get out of your hair. Which, by the way, needs washed."

John had expected Sherlock to groan at that comment, but he didn't; he smiled. It was a small smile, and Sherlock dropped his eyes from John's to the ground as soon as it began to tug at the corners of his mouth, but it was most definitely a smile.

"Well," Sherlock said, pushing himself off the couch and reaching out a hand to John. "Stay warm out there."

John took Sherlock's hand and squeezed it once, then nodded resolutely. "Yeah. I'll try." He picked his coat off the floor—he'd thrown it into the corner and hadn't looked at it since—and pulled it on, then pulled his scarf and gloves out of it and put them on. Of course, Phree picked that moment to come out of her hiding spot in Sherlock's bedroom—naturally, she picked the one spot in the house that she wasn't welcome—and meowed at him before proceeding to rub against his legs.

"Oh, hey there," John said as he bent down and picked her up, holding her against his chest. "I was just coming to get you."

"You know," Sherlock said, walking towards John, but stopping several feet away from him, "if you…well…if you want to leave her here…that's all right with me."

John smiled—a real smile, the kind that he rarely ever showed these days. "Really? You wouldn't mind?"

Sherlock shrugged and slipped his hands into the pockets of his robe. "No, I wouldn't mind. That is, if it's all right to leave her here. I understand if you want to take her with you—"

John shook his head and set Phree gently onto the chair. "No, no," he said quickly. "She's all I have. I—I want her to be happy, and she's much better off here than she is out there with me." John raised his head and his smile widened. "Thank you."

And with those last words, John turned and walked out of the room before he could change his mind. When he stepped outside, the familiar feeling of the freezing wind engulfed him, and he felt tears forming in the corners of his eyes.


	8. Chapter Eight

John spent the entire night walking the backstreets of London. He'd gone back to his alley, only to find that his box—his home, he corrected himself—was gone. As frustrated as he was about this fact, he wasn't surprised. His gun was still buried in the dirt beneath the shrubbery, and he dug it up and slid it into the back of his jeans. The last thing he needed was to be confronted by Fat, Thin, and Guy-in-Between. He really wasn't in the mood to deal with them right now.

The streets were shrouded in fog but were otherwise deserted. John walked slowly, being careful of the slippery ice beneath his feet, his hands in his pockets and his gaze lowered directly in front of him. A loud crash beside him made him start, but when he looked over, he realized that it was nothing but a waste can knocked over by a particularly strong gust of wind.

His leg began hurting about an hour into his ventures, but the cold temperatures were the perfect remedy, in that they numbed his leg—his entire body, actually—until he felt nothing but a tingling sensation, as if his entire body was falling asleep.

You need to sit down; this isn't good for your leg.

John shook his head as he argued with himself. No, because if I sit down, I'll freeze to death. At least when I'm walking I've got my blood flowing.

You know, it's not like you can't go back. He didn't do anything crazy—tell you he never wanted to see you again, tell you not to come back—so why don't you?

"Because I don't need him!" John snarled aloud. "I don't need him, or his food, his money, his clothes; I don't need any of that stuff!"

As fate would have it, John turned the corner and was met with a shop window, reflecting a pristine image of himself, despite the snow falling in the air in front of it and the ice that was beginning to creep into the corners. He stared at his reflection. As much as he tried to replace his torn and tattered clothes with his camouflaged uniform, his shaggy hair with his old military buzz cut, his thin, haggard, with the tan, confident one that he'd use to have, he couldn't.

Let it go, John. This is who you are now. And if you don't do anything about it, this is what you'll be until the day you die—which, quite frankly, will be here soon, at this rate.

/break\

Sherlock Holmes spent the rest of the night performing mundane and meaningless chemical tests. He was bored, for the first time in a week. John had kept him entertained, but now that John was no longer here, he found that that responsibility fell on his own shoulders. Again.

He found his thoughts drifting ever so often to the long needle he had hidden away, the small bottle of heroin, the tiny bag of cocaine. Every time the temptation came to him, he clenched his fists and took in several long, deep breaths, reminding himself of why he'd stopped in the first place.

His first meeting with Lestrade had been, to put it mildly, a horrible affair. He hadn't been assisting the then-detective on a case; he had been the case. Normally after a shot of heroin or a sniff of cocaine, he was perfectly content to sit at home and wallow in his own awesomeness, but not that time. That time, it had seemed like a good—no, a wonderful idea to go to the police station and tell them what kind of fools they were for not realizing that McGriff had been killed by his daughter, not by his wife.

Five years ago

As soon as he'd stepped into the police office, his eyes had centered on Inspector Lestrade, who, coincidentally, was standing right in plain view at the water cooler at the end of the hall, having a calm discussion with a young black woman, whom Sherlock later discovered was Sergeant Donovan.

"Inspector Lestrade!" Sherlock had shouted, loudly, and a bit giddily, "A word with you, if I may."

Lestrade and Donovan had looked over at him, confused, and a diminutive constable had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, to block Sherlock's path.

"Sorry, mate; you can't go back there unless you've got an appointment with the Inspector."

Sherlock smiled genially and pat the man's shoulder. "Not to worry, this won't take but a minute. Lestrade!"

"Sir, you can't go back there!"

It hadn't taken much effort on Sherlock's part to get out of the constable's grip; he overpowered him easily, and then sauntered confidently down the hall to where Lestrade and Donovan were still standing.

Lestrade held his hand up to still the constable, who had run down the hall to once again confront Sherlock. "Hold up, Reisner." The Inspector looked at Sherlock intensely, letting his eyes roam over his face. "Do I know you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, but you're about to." He held out his hand for Lestrade to take. Lestrade, though, didn't accept the gesture.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock continued, unfazed by the other man's hesitation. "I am what you might call a genius in matters of crime. I'm here to tell you that you got the McGriff case all wrong. It wasn't his wife; it was his daughter."

Lestrade cocked his head to the side, never moving his eyes from Sherlock's. "Uh-huh," he said monotonously. "Well, as always, we appreciate the public's interest in our work, but—"

Sherlock held up a finger to silence him. "No, no, no, wait; you have to hear my reasoning." He was talking a mile a minute, but he didn't care; he was excited. This was a chance to prove his superiority, and he was going to take it. "His wife claimed to be at her friend's house at the time of the murder, correct?"

Lestrade shrugged. "So? We talked to the friend; she said she wasn't there."

"Because she wasn't. She was at Blush. They both were."

Lestrade's eyebrows rose. "The…the club? The lesbian club?"

Sherlock smirked and nodded. "The same."

"But why would she—"

Sherlock interrupted Lestrade with a sarcastic snort. "Please. Obviously, she didn't want her husband to know what she was really doing that night. Can you blame her?"

"How do you know she was there?" Lestrade chuckled. "It's one of your own haunts, perhaps?"

"Ha. Ha. I know she was there because I spoke with her the day after the murder, shortly after you had. And I, unlike you, saw in her kitchen the pink martini glass only available from that club."

Donovan spoke up. "So? She could've been there before, or it could've been from the daughter, or neither, maybe they bought it at a thrift—"

"No, no. It still smelled of alcohol, there was still salt on the rim; it hadn't yet been washed. And didn't you notice how exhausted she looked? Bags under bloodshot eyes, complaining of a headache—that wasn't just from being tired, mind you. She was drinking Tekno Fuel when I was there."

"So?" Donovan asked again. Although Sherlock had just met the woman—and, technically, he hadn't even met her yet—he could tell that she was the type to start a fight. She leaned in a little, scrutinizing Sherlock with her dark eyes. "Are…Are you—"

"So," Sherlock quickly interrupted, "sports drinks are rumored to help fight hangovers. She hadn't been exercising before I arrived—trust me, I'd be able to tell—so it's obvious that she'd been out drinking, dancing, the whole package, and was trying to remedy her own mistake. Then you have to take into account that I went to Blush with a picture of the women, and the bartender confirmed that they had, indeed, been present the night before. Apparently, they botched My Heart Will Go On during the karaoke competition."

Lestrade asked, "And you got this, all of this, from a pink martini glass?"

Sherlock looked away from Donovan to Lestrade and smiled. "Oh, I've got much more from much less before, I assure you."

Lestrade lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck. "If you're right," he said tentatively, "that just means that she's not guilty. It doesn't mean that the daughter is. So where does Maria come in?"

Sherlock had furrowed his eyebrows and looked taken aback. "You're—you're serious?"

Lestrade nodded. "Uh, yeah."

"It's obvious!" Sherlock growled. "She hated her parents, especially do to the fact that they didn't approve of her current partner, a Mr. Roger Hampton. They would have done everything in their power to prevent her from getting married, so Maria and Hampton created and executed this plan to kill McGriff and let the blame rest with Mrs. McGriff."

"But why?" Donovan asked. "Why not kill both?"

"Too obvious," Sherlock answered immediately. "It was much more inconspicuous to kill the father and then hide the bloodied knife in the mother's shoe closet. It was common knowledge amongst friends and relatives that their marriage was not a happy one, which gave Maria another shadow to hide in. I'm telling you, Lestrade, question the girl and her fiancée; they'll break, I promise you."

"Fine," Lestrade had said decidedly. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt. Donovan, take care of that, would you?"

Donovan didn't look at Lestrade, but continued to stare at Sherlock, frowning. Lestrade cleared his throat.

"Donovan."

She started, then nodded. "Uh, yeah. Yes, Inspector."

Donovan turned and headed down the left-side hallway, turning into the third door on the left. Lestrade put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and led him down the opposite hallway, turning into the first door. When they were inside the small office, Lestrade locked the door behind him and turned to look at Sherlock, standing ramrod.

"What are you on?"

Sherlock couldn't help it—he laughed. It had sounded more like a giggle though in his euphoric, energetic state. "What are you talking about?" he asked innocently. "I'm not on anything!"

"Don't—" Lestrade lifted his hands and held them up, motioning for Sherlock to stop. "Just…don't. I know you're high, all right? Don't bother lying about it; it won't sit well in the courts."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I may have had a small amount of cocaine before I came to visit you. It's irrelevant."

Lestrade scoffed. "No, Mr. Holmes, it isn't. You can't just—"

"I have just prevented you from throwing an innocent woman into prison," Sherlock had spat. "Surely that's more meaningful than any fines or—or counseling sessions you'd like to force me into."

Lestrade didn't respond right away. He crossed his arms and continued to stare at Sherlock, analyzing him, trying to decide what the right course of action was. After several moments of silence, he shook his head. "What you said, about getting much more from much less—was that true?"

Sherlock nodded proudly. "It was."

Sighing, Lestrade scratched at his graying hair. "If you're so good at this kind of thing, why aren't you working for the force? You're not a cop, are you?"

Sherlock chuckled again. "Thank God, no. I'm much smarter than any cop, no offense. Well, maybe a little."

Lestrade frowned at Sherlock's arrogance, but otherwise ignored it. He shifted his weight and uncrossed his arms, letting them hang limply at his sides. "Are you a regular user?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Only if I don't have work. Without it, my brain rots."

"Work? What kind of work?"

"Exactly the kind you saw. I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world; I invented the job."

Lestrade grinned. "A consulting detective, huh? That's, erm…intriguing." He sighed again. "You know, Mr. Holmes—"

"Sherlock, please."

"You know, Sherlock, while I do value the efforts of each and every officer under my charge, sometimes they can be a bit…lacking, in certain skills. So I'll make you a deal. You help me out on a few unsolved cases, and I won't turn you in for usage and possession of drugs. Good?"

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. "Why—Why would you do that?" Before Lestrade could answer, Sherlock continued, "Is it so I don't tell your wife that you're planning on leaving her?"

Present

The next morning, or rather, afternoon, found Sherlock sitting at his kitchen table, still performing chemical experiments. He snarled and flung his chemical beaker out of his hands. His chemicals, no matter what dosage he combined them in, were not providing the desired effect. He was finding himself unable to concentrate on anything other than the sound of silence inside the flat. It was too quiet, he decided.

As he stood up and stretched, raising his arms above his head, he reflected that he hadn't always been adverse to silence. But now, now that he'd experienced something he never had before, and now that he was missing out on it…

"Why did he leave?" Sherlock said aloud, turning and making eye-to-socket contact with his skull. "After everything I did for him, he just left."

"He left because of everything you did for him."

Sherlock turned around and saw Mycroft standing before him, hands interlaced and balanced on the tip of his umbrella. "We spoke about this, Sherlock."

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, annoyed, as he picked up his skull and, carrying it under his arm, sat down in his favorite chair. He couldn't help but let his eyes linger on the chair across from his and the Union Jack pillow resting on top of it, imagining John sitting there across from him and telling him that he didn't need another pill, or that he needed to go back to sleep, hell, even to eat another bloody yogurt.

Mycroft shrugged his broad shoulders. "I'm on my lunch. Sherlock, I saw him on one of the cameras."

The words had barely escaped Mycroft's thin lips before his brother was assaulting him with questions. "How is he? Did he look all right? What's he doing?"

"Nothing special," Mycroft answered. He slowly moved forward and, dropping the Union Jack pillow on the floor next to the chair, sat down across from Sherlock. "He was just walking around aimlessly."

"To stay warm," Sherlock mused, nodding. "I should have given him another coat."

"He wouldn't have taken it. Sherlock," Mycroft leaned forward in his chair, his fingers steepled together, his elbows resting on his knees, "why him? What is there about him that makes you actually want to be involved with him? There are more intelligent, more—"

Sherlock smirked. "I would consider most doctors to be highly intelligent, Mycroft."

Mycroft shook his head. "Sherlock, he's a doctor living on the street; doesn't that seem a bit strange to you?"

"It does," Sherlock agreed, nodding. "And since when have I not liked strange things?"

Mycroft rubbed his furrowed brow and sighed. "Fine," he said as he stood up. "But I'm telling you, brother, let him go. He's a broken man, and the two of you together will lead to nothing but trouble."

Sherlock watched Mycroft leave in silence—he really had nothing more to say to his brother. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes; only seconds later, he felt Phree brushing up against his legs. Stretching his arm out, he snapped his fingers. When she approached his hand, he tentatively scratched her head.

Someone knocked on the door, and Sherlock groaned. "Leave me alone, Mycroft!" he shouted. "I don't want your advice, or your opinions!"

The door opened despite his protests, but it wasn't Mycroft who walked into the room, it was a woman, probably in her early-to-mid forties with very short, sandy-blonde hair. Her make-up was limited, but applied effectively, only a natural color of lipstick and black eyeliner on her bottom lid. She was about one and a half meters tall, and was just a bit overweight. She was wearing men's trousers, men's black dress shoes, and a man's button-up striped dress shirt.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock stood up as casually as he could and stretched his hand out. "Yes. And you are?"

The woman took his hand in a firm shake. "Harriet Watson," she said in a soft, but confident, voice. "I need your help."

Sherlock smirked. "I assumed as much, as you probably wouldn't be here otherwise. Please, sit. Forgive my attire; I've recently been discharged from the hospital and haven't yet returned to my old habits."

Harriet nodded, seemingly unfazed by the fact that she was going to have a professional consultation with a man still wearing his bathrobe at nearly two o'clock in the afternoon. She sat down in the chair Mycroft had recently vacated and crossed her hands in her lap, then sat there, simply staring at them.

Sherlock waited a moment for the woman to explain what it was that she needed from him, but when she didn't, he pried, "So how can I help you, Miss Watson?"

Harriet took in a long, deep breath before reaching into her pants pocket and pulling out her wallet. She pulled out a photograph stared at it as she spoke. "My brother," she said. "He's missing. He's a doctor, an army doctor. He was sent to Afghanistan last March, and he…well, we haven't heard a word from him since. Mum actually called them, just to check, you know, see if maybe something had happened and we hadn't been notified…" She reached up and wiped her eyes and sniffed. "She was right. They said he'd gotten shot and had been discharged three weeks earlier.

"We've looked everywhere for him, Mr. Holmes. We've asked the other soldiers if they might have any idea where he was heading, we've asked his old coworkers, we've tried and tried calling him, we've even gotten the police involved; no one knows where he is. It's been almost three months, and we're—"

Sherlock tried to smile reassuringly. "Don't worry, Miss Watson. I'll do my best to help you. Now, I assume that's a picture of him there that you're holding?" He held out his hand. "May I?"

She sniffed again and nodded, then leaned forward and let him take the picture from her. Sherlock leaned back into his chair before holding it up to his eyes, and he felt his breathing stop as they settled onto the man in the photo.

John.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock couldn't get Harriet Watson out of his flat quickly enough. The woman seemed desperate for comfort; she kept asking Sherlock 'how long will it take' and 'do you have any idea of what may've happened' and 'Mr. Holmes, please tell me you think he's all right'.

Sherlock gave non-committal answers to each of her questions: 'I can't say for certain how long it will take, but I promise you that I'll give it my best efforts. I have numerous ideas of what may have happened to him; the problem now is finding the right one.'

"Miss Watson," Sherlock said, then cleared his throat. "Is it possible that your brother doesn't want to be found?"

Harriet looked appalled at the very notion. As she shook her head, she said, "No, Mr. Holmes. That isn't possible. He's a kind, caring man. He would never put our family through the hell that we're in right now. At least, not if he had a choice."

Sherlock nodded and tried to keep his face impassive. He handed Harriet a business card. "Very well. If you'll be so kind as to write your number on this, I'll contact you as soon as I get some information."

Harriet scribbled her phone number down on the card and handed it back to Sherlock, who stood up. She followed his lead. "So that's it?" she asked him. "But don't you—don't you want the names of his superior officers? The other men in his—"

Sherlock waved his hand to silence her. "That won't be necessary. I didn't become the world's only consulting detective for nothing. Thank you, Miss Watson. I'll be in touch."

The woman finally left. Sherlock slammed the door shut behind her and locked it, lest Mycroft try to make another house call. His eyes darted around the room for Phree. She wasn't in the living room, but no matter, he knew exactly where she'd be. He went into his room and picked up the black and white lump that had made his pillow her favorite spot in the house. Whenever he slept—it was a rare occurrence, he'd give her that—he had to brush the cat hair off his pillow.

Holding her in one arm, he carried the cat into the kitchen. He set her on the counter and pulled a dental pick out of one of the drawers. Gently, he lifted her front right paw and scraped at the small pink pad on the bottom of it.

A dusting of dirt settled onto the countertop. Sherlock did the same with the cat's other three paws, until there was a visible layer of dirt on the counter. He gently set Phree onto the floor and, with a knife, brushed the dirt into a glass vial and corked it. After pushing it carefully into his pocket, Sherlock wrapped his scarf around his neck and pulled his coat on over his shoulders. It wasn't currently snowing outside, but the newspaper had announced bitterly cold temperatures. Gloves, where were his gloves? He pat his coat pockets and found them, then pulled them onto his long, pale fingers.

He spun around and let his gaze skirt over the living room, just in case there was something blatantly obvious that he was forgetting—a rare occurrence, of course, but this was too important to take any chances.

He locked eyes with his skull. It stared up at him, as if telling him the obvious and immediate solution to his conundrum—call Mycroft.

"I'm not calling Mycroft," Sherlock retorted. "I won't give him the satisfaction."

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was in the basement lab at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, bent over the lab counter. He was staring intently at the computer screen. He shook the mouse with more force than was necessary. Did it always take this long for the computer to load up? Was it frozen? His eyes darted around the room, despite the fact that he was well aware it was the only computer there.

"Not a good time to break on me, old friend," he said aloud, his soft, baritone voice impassive. "Come on, come on." He gave a small sigh of relief when the computer beeped and the login box appeared. "User ID, M Hooper sixteen. Password, kitten lover sixteen." He rolled his eyes; he had never, ever been able to accept the juvenility that surrounded Molly Hooper. She was a perfectly nice girl, intelligent, eager to help him in his cases, but also childish in some ways and madly in love with him.

Oh well. A smile and a wink, and she would give him whatever he asked for, whenever he asked for it.

"Hacking into the hospital computers now? You really have hit a new low."

Sherlock's hands clenched into tight fists. He didn't look up from the computer screen. "Twice in one day, Mycroft?" he spat. "You didn't get fired, did you?"

Gallingly, his older brother chuckled. Sherlock heard him coming towards him, the familiar shuffling of feet and the clicking of his umbrella against the tiled floor. He stood only a few inches behind Sherlock, just close enough to make it annoying, but didn't say or do anything. He just stood.

"Can I help you with something?" Sherlock asked, twisting around on his stool. "To be frank, I'm sick of you showing up, and on top of that, I'm sick of you. What do you want?"

Mycroft's lips were turned slightly downwards into a frown, and his face looked as serious and his eyes as alert as ever. "I want you to get off that computer and come with me," he told Sherlock.

Sherlock snorted. "I think not."

He heard Mycroft move, but he had turned back to the computer and couldn't tell exactly what he was doing, until a folded up piece of paper was held out to him.

"We'll see how you feel after you take a look at that."

Sherlock snatched the piece of paper out of Mycroft's hand, hoping to convey with the action how pissed off he was. His attitude soon changed, though, as he unfolded the paper and felt his stomach clench.

On the paper was a black and white picture of John, lying on the ground in the snow, his eyes closed and blackened, knees drawn up almost to his chest, his arms crossed. There were dark smudges on his face, either bruises or dirt; Sherlock couldn't tell.

"What…what is this?"

Now it was Mycroft's turn to be exasperated. "I know your skills of deduction are rubbish compared to mine, brother, but even you should be able to tell that it's John."

Sherlock slammed his fist onto the keyboard and lurched himself off the stool. "Take me to him," he demanded, locking eyes with his brother. He tried to ignore the anger that was now surging through his veins, and instead tried to focus on John. When Mycroft didn't move instantly, Sherlock barked, "NOW, Mycroft!"

Mycroft cocked his head coolly. "You're sure you don't want to find his location yourself?"

Sherlock pushed him out of the way and stormed out of the lab. He could hear Mycroft following behind him. There would be a car parked out front, he was sure of it, and that would be Mycroft's.

"What happened?"

Mycroft frowned. "He was attacked. By three hooligans."

"Why did you let it happen?" Sherlock snapped. "Why didn't you stop it?"

"I cannot keep track of every single camera in the circuit," Mycroft retorted as he closed the distance between Sherlock and himself. "I told the man to keep his eye on John, and he did."

"Fire him."

Mycroft shook his head. "I told him specifically not to interfere. How do you think John would have taken it if he knew that we were watching him?"

"He knows about the cameras, Mycroft."

"I meant watching him specifically."

The brothers were outside now. Sherlock heard the anticipated black car roar to life as they approached it. A woman stepped out of the front and opened the back door for them. Sherlock had seen her before, Marlene. At least, that was the name she'd given him. Mycroft, he noticed, called her Becky.

"You should have sent someone to him," Sherlock continued, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "I am revolted with your behavior."

Mycroft chuckled, again, and Sherlock felt his anger rising. "What?"

"You have always had a glorified impression of me," Mycroft said, staring hard at his brother. "Saying I am the British government, saying that I got Mum and Dad back together, saying that—"

"Your point, please," Sherlock interrupted. He said please, but there was nothing well-mannered about his tone.

"My point is that I'm already putting my arse on the line by having my men watch John on the cameras."

"So don't," Sherlock said with a shrug. "If you're not going to intervene when he's in trouble, why have them watch in the first place?"

"Do you really think John would have accepted help?" Mycroft asked. Before Sherlock could answer, he said, "Of course not. Of course not! Not from my men, and not from me. But he just might from you."

"Then why are you doing this? Watching him? If your whole purpose of it was just so that you could get me to spring to his rescue when he's in trouble, you've wasted your time."

I would have done it anyway.

/break\

John's head was spinning. Or was it the street? He couldn't tell. He wanted to stand up, but he couldn't even begin to remember how. His body was heavy, numb. He could still feel the world moving around him. He likened it to his childhood when he would spend the day at the amusement park riding on roller coasters, then go home that night and lie in bed and still feel the lurching motions every time he closed his eyes.

He wanted so badly to take a deep breath, but he couldn't. He was breathing shallowly now, and that was enough strain on his chest. Every breath felt like an iron rod was being shoved into his side. He closed his eyes and let his head limply drop to the ground, uninhibited.

Look at you now, Soldier Boy. You're finally going to get your greatest wish. You're finally going to get to die.

"John! John!"

"Doctor Watson!"

John wanted to laugh. Angels, he thought to himself. The fucking angels are here for me. Well it's about fucking time.

He felt two hands on his body, one on his bicep and one near his hipbone. They didn't linger there for too long though; instead, they roamed over his body, checking his bones for injuries.

"He's all right," he heard one of the angels say. "And by that I mean that none of his bones are broken."

Huh. That one sounds a little like Sherlock.

"Here, John," it said, and then he felt something heavy and warm being draped over his body. He felt two fingers being pressed to his carotid artery, gently but firmly.

"His heart rate is too slow," the other angel said. "Sherlock, his lips are blue."

"Yeah, Mycroft, I see that!"

Sherlock…Mycroft? They're not angels?

"Sherlock?" John tried to say, but all that came was a low moan. He felt a cool hand on his forehead, pushing back his sweaty bangs.

"Quiet, John," Sherlock said, patting him on the shoulder. "Just be quiet. It's okay. We'll get you back to the flat and fix you up, all right? Don't worry; you're going to be fine."

No.

"No, just leave me!" Again, John's words didn't come out as he intended. This time, instead of a moan, it sounded like he was whimpering.

"Mycroft, help me get him up."

He felt two arms gripping onto each of his and pulling him gently up and off the frozen ground. The change in orientation did no favors for him; his head felt like a massive brick had just landed on it, and John found that his neck could no longer support the weight. His head lolled forward and dropped onto his chest.

The Holmes brothers carried—well, dragged, to be precise—him to their car and helped him inside. He was sitting between them. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see that the one on his right had curly hair. Sherlock.

Again, Sherlock placed his hand on his forehead. The cool skin felt amazing when in contact with his own burning flesh, and he sighed in disappointment when Sherlock pulled away.

"He's burning up," he heard Sherlock mutter. "We barely made it in time. No thanks to you."

Mycroft snorted. "Sherlock, I told you, I did the best I could. As soon as I found out what had happened, I came and got you."

"Why didn't you just come and get him?"

"I told you; he wouldn't have come with me."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to scoff. "Right, because he definitely looks like he's in the position to be making demands."

Mycroft inhaled slowly. "I didn't realize how bad it was," he said softly. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but as you know, I have more on my plate than looking after the pets that you've outgrown."

Sherlock didn't respond immediately. After a few seconds of silence, Mycroft said, "I'm glad you've found someone."

Sherlock turned his head to stare at his brother. "Excuse me?"

"Someone you actually give a damn about," Mycroft clarified. "It only took you thirty-three years."

"Who says I care about him?"

"Well, you do, obviously. Not in words, you know, but your actions. He's the first person you were willing to peruse the streets of London for."

"I was not going to peruse the streets of London."

"Sherlock, you would have a plethora of dirt sources from that cat's paws. And I know you; you would've searched until you found him, starting with the areas closest to where you first met him and then stretching out. Give me a little credit."

"I thought you said I gave you too much."

Mycroft smirked, and Sherlock did, too. But John didn't see any of this. He had passed out soon after Sherlock removed his hand from his forehead.

/break\

When John awoke, he found himself in the familiar quarters of 221B Baker Street. He was stretched out on the sofa, covered with two blankets, one of which was electric. A fire was roaring in the fireplace and the embers were crackling and popping like it was nobody's business.

After two unsuccessful attempts, John managed to push himself up so he was leaning against the arm of the couch. Mycroft was sitting in Sherlock's chair reading a book.

"Good morning," he said without looking up from the pages.

John cleared his throat. In a raspy voice, he choked out, "Good—Good morning."

"Are we feeling better today?"

Better. Anything was better than how he'd felt the last time he was awake.

John raised a hand to his face and felt his swollen lip and the tender area around both his eyes. "I got…I got…attacked," he said softly, as the memories came rushing back to him. After a week of being off the streets, Fat, Thin, and Guy-in-Between had plenty of problems to blame on him, and they took it out in the form of physical assault.

"You did," Mycroft said, nodding, as he folded back the corner of the page and closed the book. "But you're all right. No broken bones, no internal injuries. Just some bruises and a heavy blow to your pride."

"Why am I here?" John asked as he continued to look around the room.

"Sherlock and I brought you here."

John rolled his eyes slightly. "Yes, I gathered that much. Why?"

Mycroft shrugged his broad shoulders. "My brother went mad after you left. To be honest, I can't understand why."

"Mad after I left?" John repeated, a smirk on his face. "What was he before he knew me, then?"

"To be frank, Dr. Watson, Sherlock was fine before you two became pals. He had not a friend in the world and he was perfectly fine with it. But now that he knows you, he cares about you. I don't know why, and I don't know how it happened, but I sure as hell am glad that it did."

"Oh?" John asked, his eyebrows lifting up in anticipation. "And why is that?"

Mycroft set his book on the end table and leaned forward, his elbows on his keens and his fingers interlaced. "Because everyone who comes into contact with my brother walks away thinking that he's a sociopath, if he's lucky, or a jerk, if he's not. You may have realized that he's not exactly the friendly sort."

John nodded curtly. "Yeah, I think I picked up on it a bit."

"But he likes you," Mycroft continued. "God only knows what he sees in you. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. Having a friend will do him some good. Hopefully, it will make him seem more approachable."

John nodded. It wasn't an awful idea. "Where is he, by the way?"

Mycroft smiled thinly. "He's…on a case."

"Oh. Well, that's good, isn't it?"

"It isn't a real case," Mycroft admitted. "Just something I fabricated to get him out of the flat for a few hours."

John cocked his head. "And you wanted him gone…why?"

"Because I need to talk to you about something, and Sherlock would be very, very unsupportive of the idea." Mycroft leaned back in his chair and crossed his right leg over his left, then steepled his fingers together and let his chin rest atop them. "John, the day after you left, Sherlock was visited by a client. A client named Harriet Watson."

John's breath caught in his throat and he felt his heart begin to beat quicker. Harry?

"She was looking for her brother," Mycroft continued. "For you, John."

"Did he tell her I was here?" John asked, panicked. "Please tell me he didn't tell her I was here!"

"No no, calm down. He said nothing of the sort. She's got no idea."

John breathed a sigh of relief. The very last thing he wanted was for Harry—any member of his family, really, but especially Harry—to find out that he was alive and back in London. He couldn't face them. He didn't want to face them.

"Thank God," John breathed as he sank back into the couch.

"I know that you have no intention of getting in contact with any of them, but I think you should reconsider. They're worried about you, John."

John shook his head. "No."

"She's very worried about you," Mycroft tried again. "Surely it wouldn't hurt to let her know that you're alive?"

"You're wrong. We don't get on. We never have. She has some ulterior motive for wanting to find me; I know it. No, I'm not doing it. Tell Sherlock to keep his nose out of my business."

"I've tried that approach; it doesn't work. Sherlock does whatever pleases him. Fortunately for you, that involves keeping your life, such as it is, a secret from your very concerned family.

"You know John, I can see where your sister is coming from. If it were Sherlock missing, I wouldn't stop until I found him."

"Yeah, well, you and Sherlock give a damn about each other, despite the fact that you bicker like schoolchildren."

"We were not close in our youth," Mycroft admitted. "Quite the opposite. I was quite cruel to him when he was a child. Seven years is no small difference; we had absolutely nothing in common except contempt for our fellow man—I outgrew that, Sherlock didn't. Even though we never talk about it, I have no doubt that, when he looks at me, all he remembers is how horribly I treated him throughout his entire childhood. And John, if there was something I could do to take it back, I would do it in a heartbeat. I've tried to remedy our relationship, but he's not making it easy. He wants absolutely nothing to do with me. He even—"

"Not that I don't find this fascinating," John interrupted, holding his hand up to signal to Mycroft to stop talking, "but what does this have to do with me?"

"Your sister hasn't yet had the opportunity to make amends," Mycroft explained. "You two went from being on bad terms with each other to you being MIA. Do you really want her to spend the rest of her life feeling guilty about the way she treated you?"

John shrugged. "I don't see why not. She'd let me do it without batting an eye."

"Then be the better man!" Mycroft hissed. "Do what I couldn't: swallow your pride and give it another go between you two. John, there's not a day goes by that I don't regret the choices I made back then to make Sherlock and I what we are today. You need to do this. If you don't, I promise you, you'll wish you had."

Maybe you should give her another chance. After all, she came out and consulted a professional to find you. She's obviously worried. What's the worst that could happen? She doesn't have to know you've been living on the streets. Lord knows she's a pathological liar; it won't hurt you to toss a few out there, too.

John nodded slowly. "I'll think about it," he told Mycroft. At that moment, the front door to the flat opened. Sherlock stepped inside and instantly frowned at his brother.

"That was not amusing."

Mycroft laughed. "On the contrary, I think it was very, very amusing." He stood up and gathered his umbrella and book, then turned to John and held out his hand. "Good day, Dr. Watson. Be sure to think about what I said."

John forced a smile.

As soon as Mycroft left the room, Sherlock peeled off his coat, scarf, and gloves and threw them all onto the chair with the Union Jack pillow. "Let me guess," he said, grinning. "He was trying to convince you to get in touch with your relations."

John chuckle. "Good guess."

"To be honest, I never guess; that was a rhetorical statement. Mycroft is so hung up about our dysfunctional relationship that he doesn't want to see anyone fall into the same pit. What he doesn't realize is that sometimes it's already too late."

"What should I do?" John asked, staring up into Sherlock's icy gray eyes. "Do you think I should contact them?"

Sherlock shrugged. "No idea, John. That's something you'll have to decide on your own. But I have a question of my own for you; will you move in with me?"

Sherlock slid so seamlessly from one topic to the next that it took John a split-second to even realize what the detective had asked him. He furrowed his eyebrows. "Um…what?"

"I said, will you move in with me? There's another bedroom upstairs; I'm sure Mrs. Hudson knows someone with extra furniture we could put in it. My worst habits are that I play the violin at odd hours and that sometimes I don't talk for days on end; the former you already knew about and the latter isn't really, in my opinion, that big of a deal."

"Don't forget your experiments."

"Those are a hobby, not a habit."

"Oh, right."

Sherlock stared at him expectantly, and it was at that moment that John realized that Sherlock wanted his answer now.

"Well?"

"Well I don't know!" John exclaimed. "You're a perfectly decent man and all, and I really appreciate everything you've done for me, I really do, but don't you think we're moving a bit fast?"

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't put it like that; you make it sound romantic. It's a perfectly logical decision. You need a place to live; I need someone to split the rent with. We'll get you back on your feet, get you a decent job—you can start your life over. There's actually a surgery two streets down that's hiring—"

"You knew, then?" John interrupted. "You knew all along that I was a doctor."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not all along, no. But the way you bandaged your own wounds, and the way you cared for me, lent knowledge to the fact. What you said was true; living on the streets probably does teach you a thing or two about taking care of yourself in a medical sense, but there was something very relaxed about the way you did it. Almost like you were made for it. Now, like I said, the surgery down the street is hiring, and I know that Mycroft would be willing to help find you employment, he does owe me a favor, after all."

"Slow down," John told him, smirking. "You talk too fast when you're excited."

Sherlock sighed and nodded, biting his bottom lip. "Yes. Yes, I have been told that. My apologies."

The familiar mewl of Phree brought John's attention to Sherlock's bedroom door. She was sticking her head out to hear who the voices belong to and, upon seeing John, she sauntered over to the couch and hopped onto it, rubbing against his chest.

"That's another thing," Sherlock said, pointing his finger menacingly at Phree. "You need to stay here so you can keep that thing out of my hair. Every night, every single one, she sleeps with me. But, as she prefers you to me, that habit would change if you were to move in."

Again, John laughed. The whole situation sounded too perfect. He could move in with a man that—dare he say—he was beginning to consider a friend, and he would have his cat, and he could get a job. He could get in touch with his family on his own terms, and he would be paying half the rent, not simply mooching off Sherlock…

John put Phree onto the couch and stood up, stretching his hand out towards Sherlock. "Let's do it."

Sherlock gave him a wide, genuine smile and took his hand, shaking it once. "Excellent."

"You do realize, though, that this is going to cause a ruckus. Two mates living together. People might talk."

Sherlock shrugged carelessly. "People do little else."


End file.
